


Different Circumstances

by berrryriot



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (of sorts), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reincarnation, Souls, Spirits, incoming ships would be tagged when they finally appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24052177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berrryriot/pseuds/berrryriot
Summary: Arthur wished to rest in peace, but life hated him so much that he can’t even be granted Death--so he continues to live as a wandering spirit.
Relationships: (past), Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde, Karen Jones & Arthur Morgan, Karen Jones/Sean MacGuire, Kieran Duffy/Arthur Morgan, Sean MacGuire & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 35
Kudos: 77





	1. Prologue

If he were to be honest, the morning after Jack’s retrieval party was one of the most bitter memories Arthur continuously relived—the bullets fired, the fear every person felt as the firing went on, the O’Driscolls slain, shot and killed and the inhumane way they lost a comrade that day—how everything just dwindled down to a bunch of lost fellers fighting for Judas’ gold, desperate to live for their subjective definition of freedom.

The vivid imagery of that final night played in his mind once again. 

Perhaps it was how, despite the moon being the only source of light, he saw the way Dutch’s eyes shone in regret, the glint of the pistol he shakingly held in his hands, the rings that adored his fingers standing in attention and the shy glimmer of the spurs he once bragged about stealing from a rich man flashing his vision as Dutch turned ‘round the corner to run—leaving his rat for the authorities who were chasing their sorry asses.

He can’t recall how many hours he had laid on that cold and rocky terrain, for how long he had put up with the pebbles digging into his back, with the frigid air betraying his every inhale doing the worst to his (already) busted lungs.

But he could remember the feeling of his eyes fluttering weakly, narrowing to shut tight once the sun rose from behind the wide plains he once wished to ride over with his horse (the poor animal most likely decaying at the bottom of the hill).

Arthur was told that when Death comes to collect, you’d feel yourself float and fly towards a blinding light where you’d finally be at eternal ease, where things won’t hurt anymore, where you will no longer feel scared, or confused and instead be blessed with the bountiful pleasures you truly deserved.

“Bullshit.” Arthur whispered to himself, tilting his hat forward, eyes glancing over the body he once inhabited, feeling somber over its current state.

An uncharacteristic urge to hurl upon seeing his own corpse came over him, with the amount of dead bodies he had seen (and caused), one would assume that the look of death is something that no longer phases him, unfortunately he was gravely mistaken.

Arthur couldn’t spend another second near the physical vessel, feeling even worse had he even dared to look into the intricate details of his withering person, choosing to climb back down, wandering with a blank mind yet finding himself back to Beaver Hollow, surprised to find it already occupied by the same fellers they had killed to get it.

A distasteful set of people, really.

Shooting the man-eaters one final disgusted look, Arthur continued to walk around, his mind filled with bitter imagery he would rather forget, his legs leading him to the poisoned waterhole that he could recall advocating against. With the sad state of the village once occupied by delusional individuals, the sound of stray coughs from the remaining population being it’s only noise, the place reeked of death.

Arthur walked towards the running stream, trying to ignore the chemical-slicked fish that swam across, finding the familiar feeling of uncertainty resurface as he bent forward, mumbling a prayer or mantra of sorts, hoping to peer into his own blue-eyed reflection, something to explain  _ or deny the obvious _ , only to find nothing.

“Of course.” Arthur sighed defeated. “What else was I expecting?”

He raised his right hand, trying to cover the sun that brightened the sky, trying to calm his erratic heart as he saw the translucent state of his limb, still not used to the odd form he is in.

Had he failed to mention that among the stories he’s heard, there was one would about a wandering spirit: an unfortunate soul who could not rest in peace, believing he had led a regretful life till his dying breath, cursed with memories of his past and a detailed rewind of the things he wished he didn’t do, of the things he lost and failed to accomplish, all because they aren’t thankful for the time they have been bestowed by Life.

And that was what he was: a wandering spirit.


	2. McGinty and Morgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur wants to believe he's going to be okay, he really wants to think that.

“I’m not really fine with it, am I?” Arthur mumbled to himself, mildly irritated that his translucent boot couldn’t kick the pebbles that scattered the forest ground. “Shit.”

It’s been a year since Arthur re-appeared in his diaphanous form, a year since he has come to terms that his legs would never touch the ground once more, that his hands can never take hold of things again, that he had an embarrassing ability to phase through anything—accidentally witnessing _several_ moments privy to a peculiar set of people—and that he had an odd liking to scaring piss-drunk strangers and white-hooded freaks had he simply imitated the actions of a regular poltergeist.

Arthur has come to realize a lot of things about himself, most of it coming from an unfulfilled childhood: having been ushered to a life of thievery and scheming early on.

The only thing he, to this very day, refuses to acknowledge was that somewhere deep _deep_ down his no-longer-beating heart was the ever-present bubbling feeling of dissatisfaction, and with the random flashes to the past, it grows stronger.

* * *

_“He’s back.”_

_“He is?!”_

_“He… is?”_

_“Usher him by the fire, Mr. Morgan, Mr. Marston might as well be a whole skeleton in that state.”_

_“How is he, Arthur? Is he okay?”_

_“We need to have him lie by a cot, Arthur. Sleep on the ground for the week.”_

* * *

“He…” Arthur whispered, pausing mid-air, a prickly feeling aching in his chest at the memory of John's return. Finding it impossible _**not**_ to compare to his hardships when he was kidnapped by Colm O'Driscoll. “Had that been me... I just know—”

“What you thinkin’ ‘bout, buddy?”

Arthur looked ahead to the road and felt ridiculously relieved that he no longer had to be alone with his thoughts now that a familiar face appeared: the feller floating by his side, mouth preoccupied with a straw of wheat. “You gon’ look like dying all over again.”

“Hey Cassy,” Arthur greeted, tilting his hat up in greeting. “‘bout a week or two since I last saw you around.”

“Shucks, you miss my ugly mug that much, Arthur?” Cassy jokes, moving the wheat to the other side of his mouth, his frizzled brown hair, those not trapped by the fitting straw hat he wore, flying in the breeze. “Was just looking at what’s left of my family and all, you know I gotta.”

Arthur hummed in acknowledgement, the once tranquil environment filling up with Cassy’s enthusiastic story telling: doing all of the talking as he always has, giving Arthur the much necessary distraction.

Cassy McGinty was, like his unfortunate self, a wandering spirit—of sorts.

Somehow similar to his sob story, Cassy died due to her daughter's husband being said to ‘ _mistook him for an intruder in the middle of the night_ ’, when—what the sheriff’s reports will never tell—really the man had planned to assassinate him. 

George, the husband, fired off 3 bullets of his pistol into Cassy’s chest with no hesitation on the night he was visiting their home, Cassy remembers his slim figure walking to his dying body harboring a disgusting sadistic look in his face, looking as if he enjoyed his heinous crime, using Cassy’s last few moments to reveal of his true intentions with the fortune his daughter would be inheriting.

“Don’t worry Sir, I’ll take good care of your daughter.” was the last words he heard before Cassy drew his last breath and, in those last few seconds of his living life, grew enough anger and hatred in his heart to have him come back to this world as an avenging spirit—his main cause of existence to bring forward the worst mishap to his daughter’s husband.

Cassy was, if anything, another form of a wandering spirit. Avenging spirits were told to be harmful spirits, said to bring chaos and harm into the world of the living, when really they were only actually bringing said _chaos and harm_ to those who have done them wrong; to those who truly deserve it. 

Arthur brushes off the thought of as to why **he** wasn't an avenging spirit.

“I think I’m getting out of this shit soon.” Cassy said, tuning Arthur out of his thoughts and flashing him a fitting grin. “Being all mad is damn exhausting, I’on know how you get to stay the way you are for—what was it? A whole year now? I feel like my skeleton is trying to get out of my body.”

“You don’t have a skeleton anymore, McGinty.” Arthur remarked, Cassy immediately responding with a booming laughter. “And what’chu means getting out of the shit soon?”

“Separated.” Cassy snickered, the wheat nearly tumbling out of his lips. “Well, real soon.”

“George and your daughter?”

“It’s as if the stars heard every damning wish I made!”

Arthur blew a low whistle, incredibly impressed with the feat his—dare he say it— _friend_ accomplished. Trying to push away that nagging realization that Arthur would be spending the near future alone once again. 

“Aren’t you gotta ask how I did it?” Cassy poked, looking as alive as a dead spirit can be. “You know what, since I’m a great friend. I’m gonna tell yer sourass anyway.”

“I knew you would, McGinty.” 

“I caught the dickweed cheating!” Cassy howled, slapping his knees in delight. “I feel awful for my daughter as a father should, but all it took was some pushing the wind ‘round and all that signs from God crap to lead her to him, and she caught his ugly mug red handed too! The fight that broke out was something you would have enjoyed, Arthur. I just know it!” Cassy paused in his floating and exhaled loudly, his dimensional noise scaring away a few resting birds, looking overjoyed. “My daughter is probably signing all those separation papers already, I can feel it, I’m ready to go.”

“Finally, some peace and quiet ‘round these parts.” Arthur chuckles, his hands suddenly itching for a cigarette. “‘Yer come ‘round here scaring all the horses and animals, you are the complete opposite of a crazy wildlife photographer I used to know.”

“A wildlife photographer?”

“Most ambitious one yet.”

“You don’t gotta be shy, I know you’ll miss me ‘round here, Arthur.” Cassy replied sheepishly, his eyes turning solemn for a quick second as he glanced at Arthur. “I know how lonely it is, and tiring it can be just wandering ‘round here. Keep the wild horses company, hm?”

“You ain’t the first to leave, McGinty.” Arthur said, “You won’t be the last either.”

“I know, I know. Can you forgive a feller for being mushy?”

“No, buzz off.” Arthur chuckled, feeling a comforting wave of tranquility wash his earlier thoughts. “Will I see you come in the morning?”

“Maybe not.” Cassy hummed, an uncharacteristic somber smile on his features “Sorry, feller. Don’t be so hard on yourself, yeah?”

Staying true to his words, Cassy was gone the morning after.

That same morning, Arthur went on his day wandering as he always does: accompanying the deer and wild animals by the plain fields, listening in on conversations and gossip, blowing a cool wind towards a drunk man and seeing him run wild—trying to forget the hollow feeling that was resurfacing.

“They all leave. This one isn’t any different, I’m used to it.”

Arthur wasn’t sure who he was reassuring exactly.

As the week passed, slower than usual now that his sole companion met his creator, Arthur had gathered his thoughts. 

How this whole thing wasn’t any different when he was still breathing after all, people come into his life, they go, and part ways with him just as quick, and Arthur was still human (he would like to believe at least a part of him still is) and even if he was as strong as the whiskey Dutch made him drink, perhaps even stronger, a selfish part of him wished they stayed much longer, even hoping that they don’t leave at all.

That the spirits who had their own reasons for existing never got their final wishes and goals done, then maybe they’d be exchanging more stories and he wouldn’t feel lonely.

That the love of his life fought for their relationship much more, then maybe he wouldn’t be in deep with the Van Der Lindes. 

That maybe had his mother stayed alive for a few more months, he wouldn’t be running amok with a conniving duo to begin with.

Arthur was just so tired; tired of having to process the fact that he didn’t live the way he wished he did, because he wants to believe that he led a good life, **he knows he did** : 

The people he considered as family were well-fed and had the things he needed.

_They weren’t going to rescue you when O’Driscoll had his hands on you._

He’s confident that those who made it out alive were living their best lives.

_Do you remember Lenny? Poor boy left to die like that? You know he would’ve been a great father someday._

Micah was gonna get the shit beaten out of him.

_Dutch chose him to protect over you, Arthur. Didn’t he see you as a son?_

And John was safe.

_It should have been you and you know it._

“This is exactly why I can’t rest easy, huh.” Arthur pitifully jokes, a familiar feeling of frustration bubbling to the surface. “Nothing ever came easy to me. Everyday I worked my ass off and I got absolutely nothing, but not **ONCE** did I complain!” Arthur cries to the trees who swayed with the wind, looking like they were bowing down, listening to his unfortunate tale and pitying him. “Why! Why can’t I just fucking rest already! Why can’t you give me that? Why do I have to suffer so much more?! What more do I have to do?!”

Arthur sighed deeply and felt his heart sink to his stomach, a pitiful laugh leaving his lips as he felt his cheeks dampen with tears. 

“I’m never gonna get out of this hellhole, will I?


	3. Valentine Villages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This reminded him of everything way too much.

_“We should be further along by now, but what can you do?” The head foreman huffed, patting an all-too-comfortable palm on Arthur’s shoulder. “Listen...you got any supplies for sale? I can’t spare anyone right now given the state of things -- I’d pay premium for ‘em.”_

_Arthur huffs and reaches into his satchel, emptying the bag of canned fruit and beans onto the foreman’s oak desk, reaching the smaller pockets to offer 3 half-empty health tonics and a brand new bottle of gin._

_“Appreciate it.” The Head Foreman nodded, reaching into his breast pocket for cash. “This should help keep us going.”_

* * *

“I should have done and given nothing to ‘em.” Arthur thought disappointingly, watching from a distance as the large machinery tore apart the branches of several trees, feeling a grim feeling pool in his stomach as he spotted several wild deer run amok. “Fucking Appleseed…stupid timber company.”

Arthur gripped the crown of his hat, his frustration getting the best of him as he spotted several men fired stray bullets into the air--coming from guns larger than the ones he used to carry--a mocking maniacal laugh echoing amongst the teeth-grinding noise of the metal claws that began to dig into the ground to remove the tree stumps, his heart breaking as he takes in the scene before him.

“I’m sorry, feller.” Arthur whispered as he spotted a deer run past him, fear in their large doe eyes, uncertain to where they were gonna go. It was bitter thinking but Arthur’s sure they’ll be mounted in a hobbyist’s cabin come a week or even less, but that was how it was now.

The year was 2012 and, to his plight, one of the few forests left of this time was being cleared for a resort spa; where the city people could _take it easy, and get away from the hustle and bustle of work._ It was nauseating, to say the least, but...

_...Change is permanent._

Arthur has gathered that much from a century of wandering around. He has seen the birth and death of every trend, the rise and fall of cities and governments, has witnessed the first and last casualty of every war that broke out, has acquainted and parted (or even snubbed) by every spirit whose stories began to sound the same, existed long enough that teenage campers built stories and tales around him--”the Angry Outlaw”--each version after the other straying farther from the truth.

Arthur has lived long enough to be the topic of conversation between ghosts enthusiasts, pictures of suspicious white specks fueling the possibility of his existence scourging the papers. Arthur would listen in on their discussions of his origin as a form of entertainment, playing along when “ghost machines” came to fruition by whispering and making noises just to keep them on their toes.

Arthur was present when mobile phones came to be, the contraption getting smaller and smaller as time went on, with it came computers, telephones, music players and other wires and blocks that dangled on every person. Then there were the cars and larger planes and forms of transportation that Arthur was still foreign to.

Even if his only point of existence at this point was to wander around and suffer the consequences of the actions he had done in the past, It felt too much for an old soul (literally) like him. 

“I really should stop moving around.” Arthur mumbled to himself, floating away from the monstrosity the forest has turned into, frowning as smoke from bulky all-terrain vehicles drove in. “I should just stay in one of those towns…” He thinks, heading South till he is faced with the grand gates of a private village. 

Unsure of how long it has been or where he is, Arthur looked to the side, trying to pinpoint the location’s name, his eyebrows raised in surprise as he spotted _Valentine Villages_ etched into the faux silver nameplate display that was attached to a flat rock decorative wall, letting the feeling of familiarity of the name sink in before doubling over in pain as a horrible memory resurfaced, making his head pound.

“Goddamnit.” Arthur groaned, feeling his head ready to explode. “It’s been a while.” He griped, trying to keep his composure as images of pistols, wagons, whipped horses and bullet wounds flashed in his mind, too fast to vividly picture.

In an attempt to distract himself from the memories that racked his brain, Arthur drifted to a gold plaque that was screwed next to the nameplate display, the words “Our History” etched to it, taking deep breaths as he read the inscription:

_In 1899, here stood a rough, raucous, hard-working town that provided livestock at auction to Heartlands landowners, and rest and refreshment to thirsty cowboys._

Arthur chuckled as he figured the landowners wouldn’t want anybody to know that Valentine was known as “Mudtown”, since the buildings or it’s people were rarely clean. “Must be bad for business.” He remarked, finally getting himself together, phasing through the walls.

Arthur flew through the village, looking at the cream and pastel colored houses where several establishments and the Saloon once stood, laughing at the memory of having to wrestle one giant man once but quickly frowning as he remembered the damage that resulted in, the several dirty looks he got from the townspeople after the fight, and the overall nasty impression he left. 

Arthur read somewhere that the man, who noticeably spoke incoherently ever since the fight, must have suffered brain damage or _aphasia_ due to the blows he gave him to the head.

“Fuck.” Arthur whispered, pushing away the thoughts. Can’t a wandering spirit enjoy one good memory without it hitting like a bag of bricks?

Arthur finds himself at the large park where the post office once stood. Taking in the green and shine of the newly trimmed grass, the sophisticated-touch of the large gazebo that was set in the middle of the park where a pair of elders were currently playing chess, the sight of the red swing and slide that small children crowded over, and their parents and guardians cooling themselves on the oak wood benches situated under the shade of the trees.

“Yeah, this would do.” Arthur remarked, nodding his head in approval, his resolve of staying in one place strengthening as he floated to the generous shade of trees, chuckling in amusement as the adults began to talk about the sudden drop of temperature. 

* * *

It has been a month since Arthur made Valentine Villages his home. Finding the constant way of things good for himself, not drifting far from the park he has come to love spending time in. Though Arthur swore that he should take the time to look around and familiarize himself with the area and other facilities the village had offered, or the larger part of the city outside the grand gates, he also couldn’t find a reason as to not do it the day after, ending up with him not doing it at all. 

But that was okay, it wasn’t like he was going anywhere else, not until he gets his own issues sorted out -- but that wasn’t gonna happen anytime soon.

“Stop thinking about it.” Arthur scolds himself, coming to understand that no matter what excuse he’ll spew his dissatisfaction will continue to override any form of acceptance, busying himself as he peered at the flowers the Village Gardener had planted a few days ago, enjoying how they stood out even when the night came, rivaling the stars with Arthur’s attention.

There was always something about flowers that fascinated him, he can’t pinpoint if it was because of the eccentric rich man from Saint Denis asking him to collect them or if it has been a long time hobby of his given the flower that reminded him of his mother never left his bedside table. Whichever the reason was, he loved them.

Arthur’s thoughts were cut short as the familiar siren of today’s authorities reached his ears, its blue and light emergency lights shone in the dark, catching the attention of late-night joggers and other bystanders as they drove past, stopping abruptly as the police in the passenger side left the car and tackled someone he couldn’t see properly as the commotion brought a crowd.

Curious as to the events unfolding him, Arthur drew closer to the crowd, phasing past them wanting to get to the very center, leaving a trail of people rubbing their arms or gripping their jackets tighter at the sudden drop of temperature.

In the middle of it all was the police officer he spotted leaving the car and another holding down a man looking worse for wear on the hood of their cruiser, handcuffing him as he continued to cry out.

“It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it!” The man cried out, looking obviously overpowered by those pushing him down. “I would never kill him! I would never kill anybody!” The man continued to cry out as the police read him his rights as he should albeit with a snarky tone, almost sealing the man’s fate. Had that cop been the judge, this poor feller might as well be guilty.

Noticing the accumulation of witnesses, the cop moved aside instructing the crowd to move alone. Allowing Arthur a glimpse as to who the poor feller is. 

From his view, Arthur figured having two large cops press him down was overkill compared to the skinny physique he had, looking to be even smaller as his shirt rode up, exposing his back and small waist. It was as if he was a toothpick ready to break.

“Please!” The man continued to cry out, obvious desperation in his voice. “I wouldn’t kill him, I wouldn’t ever kill Arthur!”

Now it wasn’t that he was the only Arthur to roam this earth, but to witness a possible suspect kill a man named after him made him feel uncomfortable, unfortunately reminiscing bits of his own death, a sour look on his face. He continued to observe from afar, seeing the suspect wriggle against the cuffs as the cop raised him from the hood, having him face Arthur and the stubborn bystanders who were being pushed aside, exposing the man’s identity.

As if hit by lightning, Arthur felt stunned as he took in the features of the man in front of him, already feeling the sick familiarity in his stomach, trying not to double over in pain as gory images of a headless comrade smacks him blind. The biting memory of harsh jokes and ropes tied on arms catching him off-guard.

 _It can’t be.._.

The man continued to cry as he was pushed inside the police cruiser, the cops looking just as unconvinced as they were earlier, wanting to get it over with.

“I didn’t do it!, I didn’t kill-- _Arthur!”_

“Kieran.” Arthur breathed out, memories of the times the stable hand called for him from afar overlapping the screams the one in front of him made, trying to process everything as the cruiser drove away.


	4. Two Arthurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this was Life's way of having fun, she should stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MMM! I had a lot of time in my hands and I just had to release the next chapter.

_ “Thank you, Mister Morgan.” Kieran says, walking towards him, hands full with the saddle he was brushing. “For sparing me like that…I’ll work hard, I am not a bad feller.” He continues, eyes gleaming of determination under all the exhaustion. “You’ll soon warm to me.” _

_ “Just see that I will.” Arthur replies nonchalantly, fiddling with the brim of his hat.  _

_ “Oh you will!” _   


* * *

Had Arthur not been floating from the ground, he would have needed something to hold on to after what he saw. It was far too much to process for an evening he wanted to spend looking at flowers. 

“That was Kieran, right?” Arthur mumbled, massaging his temples as bits of his memories pulsed in his mind. “I’m sure that was him, or was it someone that looked like him?” He groans, strength faltering as his willpower to repress the thoughts in his head failed.

It’s been years since then, the Kieran he knew was last seen — **no** , Arthur doesn’t even want to specify the condition he last saw of the supposedly dead man. 

Perhaps it was just someone that looked like him, it was impossible, it was  _ biologically _ impossible. 

“Did’ja see the guy they took away?” Came the murmur of the bystander, tuning Arthur back to reality. “Wasn’t it that Kieran kid? Imagine killing your employer, dude. That’s fucked.”

“True.” The person beside him nodded in agreement. “I mean, like, I hate my boss, and maybe I thought of spitting in his coffee, but to kill? Beyond me.”

Arthur felt more confused as he heard their conversation, taking the pieces to slowly arrive to the conclusion that whoever Kieran was in this time was employed by him — another “Arthur”. 

_ Was it an Arthur like him?  
_ _ Did that mean that a version of him was in this time?   
_ _ Did it look like him? _

“Heard the situation needed quick treatment that they had to take Arthur to the village clinic.” The same bystander said, shaking his head in disappointment. “It is the closest one around.”

Arthur believes it’s best to head over to the city’s Police Station to get a good look at ‘Kieran’, try and get a solid grip on the happenings, maybe find a logical explanation for it, something to soothe his already exhausted mind. But his curiosity gets the best of him as to this Arthur was. 

_ What is his actual relation to this Kieran?   
How can he exist when he’s technically here.  _

“I should check ‘Arthur’ first,” He said, coming to a final resolve, his own name sounding foreign on his tongue. “Then we can go to Kieran.” That didn’t sound any better.

Swiftly floating through the empty roads of the village, Arthur arrives at Valentine’s clinic — Its bright white interior lights spilling out of the windows and brightening the block it stood on, the poor streak of green from the lit signage drowned in its light. Arthur can tell from the nearby houses’ drawn curtains that the establishment was more of a curse than a blessing to those who wanted to sleep.

It wasn’t built like the larger hospitals he has seen in other cities, he figures that these were one of those that could offer a bed or two for those who would feel sick, already judging it to be understaffed and, most likely, unfit to hold a victim’s body. 

Phasing through the walls, he confirmed his assumptions as he spotted the lone nurse dozing off by the reception desk, making it much easier for Arthur — or for anyone, really — to peek into the clipboard under his arms, finding  _ Arthur M.  _ on the top of the list and the room he’s in.

“Even the first letter of our last names are the same?” Arthur grumbled. 

Had Life made another him, they could have at least been a bit more creative with the variation. 

Heading towards Room C, Arthur finds himself feeling anxious, unsure of just what or who stood behind this door, that not even his collective experiences could prepare him for.  Arthur takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, phasing through the door, hesitantly fluttering it open, disappointment filling his system as he spots the body covered with a white sheet on the steel stretcher it laid on.

_ “ _ Talk about anti-climatic. _ ”  _ Arthur thinks, considers manipulating the wind to push the blanket aside for him as he takes cautious steps towards the body. 

“What are you doing, dude?” 

Arthur snapped his head instead towards the direction of the voice, speechless as he garners the sight before him —s tanding a few inches below Arthur, the look-alike had sported bleached blonde hair, its dark roots visible, instead of the natural dirty blonde hair he had. His eye color black while his was blueish-green. It was almost a younger version of him as  his  jaw and overall shape were not as defined, the was the absence of age spots or any wrinkles by his eyes, his skin almost free of bruises and scars, save for the gash that decorated his right temple.

“Woah!” Arthur M. cries out, pointing at him. “Dude! You look exactly like me?! Do you see this?” 

“I think it’s more of you looking like me.” Arthur grumbles, coming to understand that even in personality; they were completely opposites of one another. 

Arthur M. skips past him, heading towards the covered body, snatching the sheet away. “Rad! You totally look like me, I mean...almost.” Taking eager steps towards Arthur, sliding his foot across the space where Arthur’s foot and ground don’t meet. “I don’t float though, like you.” Arthur M. puffs disappointedly, a childish pout on his face.

Having seen so many spirits in his lifetime, the phase of being surprised that this young adult could see him had no effect, instead he looking past the boy's physical features, taking in the translucent form of his other self, confirming his suspicion with his inability to float that Arthur M. wasn’t like him.

“Why don’t you go back to your body?” Arthur scolds, blueish-green eyes staring at black ones. “You’re no spirit, you’re a restless soul.”

“Ah…” Arthur M. replies, looking as if his biggest secret has been revealed. “I don’t really get the difference, dude. But I wouldn’t want to go back to that body even if I could.” He states, gesturing to the cold corpse behind him.

“Before I even explain it to you.” Arthur sighed frustratingly, massaging his temples in annoyance. “I gotta ask, how the hell did you die?”

“I got stabbed by gardening shears,” The boy replied nonchalantly, tapping his right temple as he continued. “Since my head was bleeding too, I’m gonna assume I hit the floor real bad after that.”

“Gory.” Arthur commented, feeling rightfully nauseous at the red gash that lined the corpse’s stomach. “Answer me this, did Kieran do it?”

“Kieran? Why would?” The other replied, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Kieran didn’t do it. Whoever attacked me couldn’t be bothered to do it when I turned my back, so I fucking know who did it.”

“Then why is Kieran being arrested for it?”

It took a few seconds for Arthur M. to process his question, a vast array of emotions expressing themselves on his face as he took it in “How the fuck would I know?!” Arthur M. cried out.

“Stop saying fucking!” Arthur scolds, suddenly feeling his age (living and wandering combined). “If he didn’t do it then it’s just right that you clear his name, right now.”

“Why’d you think I-” Arthur M. points at himself. “A dead dude, can clear his name?”

“Because unlike me, you have a body to return to.” Arthur states, looking at his almost-copycat with a serious expression. “Listen, there are different types of souls and spirits — there are the Wanderers, Avenging, and At Ease then there are Restless Souls like yourself.”

“Wandering spirits, like myself, are here cause we didn’t like how we live and are cursed to live without actually living.” Arthur paused, pushing aside the temptation to dive into the complication of his form and continuing. “Then there are Avenging spirits, they are around because they died unfairly and are out to get their revenge on those who caused them to die. Are you getting this so far?”

Taking Arthur M.’s eager nodding as an answer, Arthur continued his discussion. “At Ease spirits are those who get to live the happy life, they get to “rest in peace”, those RIP things you engrave on tombstones? They get to have that.” 

Arthur hopes he didn’t sound as bitter as he actually does. 

“Then there are Restless Souls like you, it really doesn’t matter if you died unfairly or not, but what makes you different from the rest is that you forced yourself out of your physical body, you technically still got the chance to continue living but, all the Restless Souls I met, fucking purposely choose not to until the physical body itself deteriorates biologically, or they walk towards the light.” Arthur finishes, gripping the crown of his hat in routine. “Which mean that you can still fix this.”

“Ever dawn to you that we don’t wanna go back cause we don’t wanna continue, ya know, living?” Arthur M. mumbled looking to the side, feeling quite offended with how his older-other-self described Restless Souls, understanding who he was.

“I don’t give a shit.” Arthur sniped. “You Restless Souls don’t even know how lucky you are getting the chance to go back, and you're all taking it for granted.”

As far as Arthur can recall, he has always held anger towards every restless soul he has come across, perhaps it was how he was built, his aggressive personality retaining in the afterlife, or it was due to how the completely opposite conditions of Wanderers such as himself clashed with them. 

Whatever the case, he never liked them.

“You gotta clear Kieran’s name.” Arthur said, determined to bring the stubborn boy back. “Cops these days ain’t any better than how they were a century ago, he deserves at least that.”

“I got a question.” Arthur M. speaks, brushing the older-other-self's concern. “If another soul gets to go to my body first, then do they get to...I don’t know, possess it or something?”

“Yeah.” Arthur replied. “I, for one, think it’s disgusting.”

“Huh?!” Arthur M. expresses. "Didn't you go and say Wanderers wanted to live but couldn't blah blah."

“Think of yourself wearing someone else’s trousers, having to rub all the nasty things they did to other people on you.”

“That’s dumb, but I need you to hear me out!” Arthur M. says, his eyes twinkling. “Here’s an idea! Why don’t you get in my body and clear Kieran’s name yourself?”

“Excuse me?” Arthur growled. “Didn’t you fucking hear me. I don’t even know if I can even get out of your body if I were to possess it. I don’t wanna deal with whatever issues you left behind. I got enough of them as it is.”

“Then…” ‘Arthur M. shrugged, a pout on his face. “I guess we're leaving Kieran to rot in prison. Because I am not going back, I don’t want to.”

Of all the things his younger-other-self could have gotten from him, it had to be how stubborn he is.

“So?” Arthur M. continued. “What do you think we should do now, other self?”

Arthur despised the familiar feeling that enveloped him, because, just as always, he didn’t  **fucking** know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me at tumblr: @luvvbott


	5. Setting it right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer than usual!

“Come on, Mister dude.” Arthur M drawls, his head lolling to the side, feet still kicking from the top of the steel counter he sat on. “It’s just a quick bust out a jail kind of thing.”

“We are not busting him out of jail,” Arthur grits, fingers finding comfort on the skin peeling on his lips. “That’ll only make him more guilty, you dumbass.”

“I’m not the one who won’t get into my body to clear up a friend’s name.” Arthur M whines, pausing momentarily as his words set in, chuckling at Arthur’s crossed expression. “Oh wait I am. I still won’t do it.”

“I won’t do it either.” Arthur says, grinding his teeth. “Even if we did, what’s the plan with this one? Are we gonna appear as if we didn’t actually die?”

“Yeah?”

“No, that’s dumb and reckless.” Arthur shot down. “Actually, any idea you have that includes having  **_me_ ** climb into your body is a no.”

Arthur M groans, kicking his feet in irritation, sighing as he peers at his cold corpse once again, eyes shining in determination to push his agenda. “Listen, dude—"  


“It’s Arthur.”

“So am I.” Arthur M dismisses. “I want to clear Kieran’s name as much as you do, but I just don’t want to be in there. It’s gotta be you!”

“You’re fucking stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well so are you!” Arthur M points accusingly. “You said it yourself that every Restless Soul you meet doesn't wanna jump at the chance to get back! What if it’s in our nature, like that’s how we’re built.” He says. “The only thing stopping you is your dumb preferences and philo-whatever.”

Arthur rubbed his temples in annoyance, refusing to admit that somewhere under his hard exterior, a voice was agreeing with his younger-other-self’s words. 

Sure, he was stubborn about it, but there wasn’t much he was holding on to in this life anyway, can’t he, at least, have a firm grip on how he’d prefer to live out the rest of it?

“Unless you can conjure up a plan that two invisible dudes can do, this is the only option we got.” 

Arthur’s eyes widened as Arthur M’s words sank in, a bright idea filling his head space. “A haunting.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“A haunting. A spook.” Arthur clarifies, “We can spook the killer to admit it, like a broken man’s confession.”

“This isn’t a fucking movie, dude.” Arthur M. replies. “You think a dude who murders a kid is afraid of something like ghosts?”

“I’ve lived for 100 years. It isn’t the same with every person, but they’re all scared of the idea of the undead, some form or another.”

“Scientists?"

“The moment they try to convince themselves that they’re seeing things is the breaking point.”

“Pastors?”

“You’d be surprised with where they keep their spare rosaries and bottled Holy Water.”

“Some people don’t believe in ghosts, dude. It’s impossible.”

“Unless ‘yer head got a better plan, I'm all ears.” Arthur shrugged his shoulders, waiting for the other to say anything, taking his long silence and jittery posture as compromise. “So, haunting it is.”

“I won’t be surprised if this doesn’t work.” Arthur M. sighs, “The dude who killed me works for a ruthless dude ‘round here.”

“Who and why are you being targeted anyway?” Arthur asks, suddenly noticing the way his other self tensed at the inquiry. 

Don’t tell him that even in this time, this other version of him was also a ruthless bastard being chased by the law. 

“Cleet. Officer Cleet.” Arthur M replies, dodging the question that followed it. “He works under Lieutenant Bell, and I’m telling you that man is as suspicious as hell.”

“Bell?” Arthur repeated, an intense surge of anger flowing through him. “As in, Micah Bell?”

“Micah Bell the 6th actually.”

“That fucker lived 6 more lives?"

“Woah, you know him?”

“Yes.” Arthur replies briefly, sparing him of the cruel history between them and how Micah Bell had basically orchestrated the fall of his entire life, his family, their trust, their hard work and basically brought nothing but bullshit the moment he dared breath the same air he did. “And Cleet? Is he with another feller named Joe?”

“Yeah! Dude, You're really convincing me with this next lives and stuff. I thought this was just some mythical bullshit.”

“Ha Ha.” Arthur replied dryly, no longer finding Life’s antics to be entertaining. “Let’s go, we got a confession to bring out of a wuss.”

* * *

In the 100 plus years Arthur has spent wandering the world, he has come to notice a few things: one of those numerous conclusions being that the police never really change. Sure they got cars now, but they were just as fruitless in their investigations and chases as they have been, Death came to him first than they did. Even in modern settings, they still held with their personal biases and had slipped into several moments that had them abusing their power.

Arthur isn’t sure if it’s was human nature to blame as to who fucked they were, or if it was just them as cops.

He and Arthur M. stood in front of the moderately sized building, the large lit signage wording out “NEW HANVER POLICE” hanging by the entrance. Several suited cops loitering the flower beds next to it, engaging in work chatter, putting out cigarettes and looking energized by caffeine as the night creeps to a quarter to 1. 

“Dang, it doesn’t look any different at all.” Arthur M. muttered, looking bored as he observed the surrounding. “They didn’t replace the O on the sign.”

“It’s almost like you’ve been here before.” Arthur shoots him a suspicious look. 

“Sure, let’s say that.” Arthur M shrugs, looking to want the whole thing to be over with. “I think Officer Cleet is having his patrol rounds right now, but he’ll usually be in his office. How’d you wanna approach?”

“How do you know his shifting?” Arthur asked, weirded out by his convenient knowledge. “How many times have you been here?”

“Eh…” Arthur M rubbed the back of his head, “It’s not important.”

“If you say so.” Arthur drawled, determined to get it out of him later. “I think we should surprise him in his office, get him spooked enough to draw attention from the other officers and when he hits the breaking point, have him fess up to the others.” He laid out a serious look on his face. “If we can get a few decent people to report that to whoever they report to, then maybe we can get Kieran out here in an hour or two.”

“Alright alright.” Arthur M. nodded, his mood shifting to an excited one. “How should we scare him?”

“If I got it right, I think you have the ability to make yourself visible to the human eye.” 

“Okay.” Arthur M drawled. “So, I go  _ boo, you killed me unjustly and now you gotta pay for it  _ kind of haunting?” He suggests, putting his hands up and wriggling his fingers. “Like that?”

“You can be just a little more threatening than that.” Arthur deadpanned. “But that’s the plan.”

Entering the establishment, Arthur immediately spots a cuffed Kieran locked in their holding cell, looking scared as three drunk men try to engage in conversation. His attempts to push them away were ignored by the group. 

“That hoarse voice of yours is stirring me up, da’ling. Bet you stayed up all night screaming.”

“Get away from me, mister!” Kieran cries, his voice coming out strained. Looking towards the cop who guarded the front desk with desperation. “Sir! Please. Get him away from me!”

Arthur frowned as the cop Kieran called out to rolled his eyes, approaching the holding cell with a drag in his feet, poorly scolding the drunk men to leave the “murder suspect” alone. The words affecting Kieran more than it affected the bad company. 

_ God, he had to get Kieran out of this miserable place.  _

There was something with the dreary look in his eyes which was too similar with the Kieran he had lost, looking both to be giving up and to be fighting to see the next day, that pushed him to try harder and clear his name. Kieran never gave him the chance to return the favor for saving him in that cabin, after all. 

This was just his need for justice screaming at him. Still, the memory had him pausing in his movement and gripping his temples.

“You alright, dude?”

“Peachy.”

* * *

Arthur stood by the door to Cleet’s office. Phasing half of his body out, observing the other suited officers who weren’t as awake as those outside, their fingers lazily pressing on the keyboard to finish up reports. The dim and unmaintained office lights pushing them to doze off. 

“They look pretty damn unfortunate, don’t they?” Arthur M. spoke up, shaking his head in pity. “This is why I don’t want to be a cop.”

“Were you planning to?”

“No, but my dad insists that I do.” Arthur M. replies. “He doesn’t get that I won’t do the same thing he’s doing. I mean, he probably knows that...since I’m dead and all?”

“What exactly did you want to be anyway?”

“An artist. I paint a lot, and I wanted to sell them for a living.” 

“You can continue doing that if you just get back to your body.”

“Whatever.” Arthur M. rolls his eyes, unaffected. “Is Cleet there yet?”

“If you’re asking if I can see a murderer in this office, I can assure you that every cop here probably beat someone close to death.” Arthur replied. “But no, I don’t see his ugly mug.”

“How ‘bout you?” 

“What about me?”

“What did you want to be?” Arthur M. said. “I’m guessing you aren’t happy with how your life turned out cause you wanted to be something. And with the whole cowboy outfit you got going here, I’m guessing the time back them wasn’t too welcome with it.”

“I just wanted to live West and ride horses, get my family a place away from the city..” Arthur replied, eyes focused on the entrance in case Cleet comes walking in. “But, outlaws aren’t exactly the most welcomed bunch.”

“You killed people?”

“Had to.”

“Killing is a choice, dude.”

“Not if you were in my position, kid. Killing was a form of survival.”

“You sound like you’re convincing yourself.” Arthur M. says. “Are you telling me, that not one time did you think that  _ maybe, I don’t think this dude has to die  _ when you were cowboy-ing around.”

Arthur remains silent, dismissing the conversation. Sure, he may have entertained the thought of not killing, but when the world was out for you, when everyone was a threat, and there weren’t a lot of people you could trust your ass to, killing becomes a necessity. That’s how it was. 

“Hey! That’s Cleet right there!” Arthur M. says, bringing Arthur out of his thoughts.

Arthur came around to recognizing the eerily similar way their small eyes looked, not fully sinister but not the most honest ones either, and the sharp nose. Save for a few minuscule details like the fullness of the man’s eyebrows, this Cleet looked almost exactly like the Cleet he had come across.

“You know what to do?” 

“Hell yeah!”

Unknown of what awaits him, Cleet enters his office, tossing his hat to the table as he sank to his seat, boots resting on the top of his desk, looking close to dozing off. Taking this as a good sign, Arthur gave the signal to Arthur M, the latter activating his ability to be, at the very least, visible to the officer’s eyes.

“Cleet…” Arthur M. mumbles, lowering his tone to set the mood. “Cleet…”

“What the fuck?” Cleet mutters, eyes still shut, fingers coming to his ears to rub them aggressively. He must be hearing things.

Arthur M continued with his administrations, floating closer to the napping cop, tempted to wriggle his fingers like they did in cartoons but stopping when Arthur shot him a look of disapproval. Experimentally, Arthur M gripped on Cleet’s bony wrist, the cop waking up in surprise to the sudden shiver that ran up his spine, his eyes blurry and adjusting to the environment before finding himself too shocked for words as he takes in the apparition that hovered in front of me.

“Cleet…” Arthur M. speaks slowly, dropping his jaw and tilting his head, mimicking the ghosts he watched in those movies. “Cleet...why...why are you lying?”

Arthur encourages from the side to continue, taking Cleet’s inability to reply as a good sign, pushing the unlocked door of the office open to possible spectators. They need people to hear whatever confession he’ll let out.

“You killed me that night…” Arthur M. continues, gripping his wrist tighter as he felt him fidget in his seat, intensifying the eye contact he shared with him, his other hand now pressing on Cleet’s throat, enough to induce labored breathing. “Why is Kieran behind bars, Cleet? Why are you lying, Cleet?”

“LET GO OF ME, DEMON!” Cleet cries out, the reaction being exactly what Arthur was aiming for, eagerly peering into the hallway as the commotion had a few heads turning in this direction.

“Cleet, why…” 

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!”

“You stabbed me, Cleet. You let me fall…”

“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!”

“I know you killed me, Cleet…” Arthur M. growled, turning his appearance for the worse, his once bright blue form turning red in anger as Cleet continued to lie. “YOU KILLED ME. I KNOW YOU KILLED ME.”

“Please let me go!” Cleet whimpers, senses focused on the inhuman being in front of him, eyes clashing with the hollow pupils of the ghost, the room filled with the scent of death, his tongue tasting blood as he licked at the lip he bit in fear, skin cold and ears deafened to the ringing around him. “I’ll do anything!”

“Tell me the truth, Cleet.” Arthur M. said in a cold tone. “Don’t take me for a fool.”

“Fine, fine!” Cleer surrendered, voice shaking as he revealed the truth. That it was him who killed Arthur M, that it was him who stabbed the feller with gardening tools, that it was he who orchestrated Kieran’s arrest after falsifying evidence. “And that’s the whole truth! Not a single lie!”

A sinister smile made its way to Arthur M’s face, looking far too satisfied with the information, vanishing immediately. At this, Cleet became hyper aware of the shocked faces of his colleagues, all who were spectating from the door of his office. Three phones in the air, one cop already radioing the rest, his posture flattening as he heard the clinging of the handcuffs come close.

Arthur grinned at the scenario, phased past the walls and waited by the holding cell. The commotion from the inside bringing itself out as Cleet thrashed against the handcuffs and the larger cops which held him, claiming everything he said earlier on was a lie, saying  _ Arthur’s ghost made me tell it all ,  _ which wasn't really helping his claim of innocence.

“Radio Headquarters,” came the order of who Arthur assumed was of higher authority. “Tell ‘em we got the actual murderer of the feller from Valentine.”

After a few signed papers and radioed commands, both Arthurs witnessed Kieran being brought out of the holding cell, looking so relieved he almost cried. 

“Which hospital did they bring, Arthur?” Kieran asks, taking Arthur by surprise. 

_Really? He gets out and that’s the first thing he asks?_

**Odd.**

“Valentine clinic.” replied the Officer.

“Thank you!” And with that, Kieran rushes out of the police station.

“Hey kid.” Arthur asks, finding the interaction to be quite suspicious. “What’s Kieran to you?”

“Kieran?” Arthur M replies, looking up momentarily. “He’s...a friend, with a really bad taste for company. I’m telling you he’s better off hanging out with someone… someone better.”

“A friend?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Just...curious is all.”

“We should get back to the clinic.” Arthur M says, having enough of the commotion. 

“Are you finally getting back to your body?” Arthur asks. “I’m not going unless that’s what you’re doing.”

“Yeah.” Arthur M nods, trying his best not to meet his other self’s eyes. “It's about time.”

* * *

“I knew you’d come around.” Arthur states, nodding his head in approval like a proud parent, eyes scanning the uncovered corpse. Slightly happy that the sleeping nurse from earlier was still in the same state, hence they wouldn’t have moved the body to a different area that would raise eyebrows if one walks out from it.

“I got a good face, don’t I?” Arthur M kids, standing beside him, looking quite sad. 

“We got the same face, idiot.” Arthur replies, a lingering wholeheartedness under the insult. “Once you get back to your body, you better continue that painting thing of yours. I think it’ll work out.”

“How are you sure?”

“Well,” Arthur pondered. “I did some illustration in a journal back then, I’m no artist but it was good. The talent probably amplified through the years.”

“Dang!” Arthur M grinned, his hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder, relaxing as it made contact. “Let me tell you something ‘bout myself in return, just before I do what I gotta do. I mean, I probably won’t get to see you again once I get back, huh?”

“Most likely, not unless you got a third eye of sorts.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Alright,” Arthur nodded, and faced Arthur M. “Shoot.”

“Did I ever tell you that I took up boxing?” Arthur M. says, his fist curled on his side. “I delivered a mean left hook.”

“Did you n— **URGH**!” Arthur groaned as Arthur M. swung his face unexpectedly, cutting his response short. Forgive a big bad outlaw like him for faltering, but it’s been a while since he partook in a fist fight, the hit numbing his senses for a few seconds, the feeling of falling enveloping him as Arthur M pushed him towards his body, a bright light flashing through his translucent form as he lined up with the corpse.

“What the fuck did you do?!” Arthur cried out, trying to claw out of the body. He recalls what it was like to be lassoed off a horse, and the feeling was similar, but this was a much stronger force. It was pushing him towards the body, it was gripping tight, the physical welcoming the presence of a soul—whether it was of the original owner, or if it was not. “KID!”

“Umm…” Arthur M hummed, unsure of what his last words were to be. Afterall, this man was going to take over his life now. “Arthur…”

“FUCK YOU!” The other replies, his struggles still fruitless. 

“I would tell you my whole life story but we obviously don’t have time for that.” Arthur M smiled apologetically. “I just think you’ll do much better as me than...than me? Do you get that?” Arthur M continued, a friendly grin on his face. “So, umm…”

A familiar voice reached Arthur M’s ears, diverting his attention. 

Damn, Kieran was never this fast in getting to places before.

“Mister dude.” Arthur M continued, finding his endless cursing ineffective. “Take care of Kieran, okay? That’s the only thing you gotta do, and I think you do a good job with it! I can trust you.”

Arthur wanted to move, he wanted to jump at this kid and hurt him all over again, but he felt too tired to pounce. Instead he felt pain once again, not agonizing pain, just the sting from the injury on his side, where Arthur M was stabbed, the boy’s injuries becoming his. He wasn’t aware of what was around him, the last thing he saw being an apologetic smile of his other self before losing consciousness and drowning in darkness.

Arthur M sighed in relief as the translucent form of Arthur fully immersed itself in his body, the door of his clinic room swinging open right after, with Kieran trying to catch his breath behind it. Feeling his chest twist, he reached and touched his shoulder, a cheeky grin on his face as Kieran suddenly shivered.

"Damn it, why'd they place you in a cold room." Kieran mumbles, wrapping his arms around him. "You hate the cold." 

“You hate it too.” Arthur M replies, his words falling on deaf ears, eyes watching Kieran as the man ran to his body, holding his hand.

He spared himself one last look before leaving the clinic room, spotting a bright light at the end of the hallway, mesmerized as he began walking towards it, his senses numbing as he got closer, the light acting as a blanket as it swallowed his translucent form, the light disappearing as it did, leaving behind no proof of it’s momentary existence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took quite some time. 
> 
> Follow me at tumblr: @luvvbott


	6. Retrograde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn't the Arthur they were looking for.

_ It was cold.  _

Arthur wasn’t fond of the cold. It reminded him bitterly of low rations, freezing corpses, thin and raggedy blankets and  _ wolves.  _ He didn’t like the coats that made him feel too hot, or the boots that made his toes frigid. He hated how chapped his lips felt, or how dry his throat was around the cold; and right now, he just felt cold. 

_ “I just think you’ll do much better as me than...than me? Do you get that?” _

Throughout the years, Arthur has learned to take suspicion in good things, because it never ends there. He shouldn’t have kept his guard down thinking a Restless Soul would saunter over and get back to their body. Admittedly, Arthur shouldn’t have taken on the task to interact with them, but…

_ “Take care of Kieran, okay? That’s the only thing you gotta do.” _

Arthur has always been a prisoner to his emotions. He tried to appear aloof by the change around him, to be unaffected with the lives he had taken, do things just because he was told to, but he knew that the decisions he made at the end was one that was made by his heart; orchestrated by the very concept he separated from himself.

“I’m tired.” Arthur whispered to the abyss of his thoughts, coming to consciousness as a bright light flooded his senses, feeling powerless as he began to feel  _ alive.  _

Opening his eyes, Arthur took in his setting, finding himself inside the same hospital room. 

Only this time, he wasn’t hovering beside the body.

“Is this what it was like?” Arthur thought to himself, wiggling his fingers as he tried to adapt to the feeling of his physical form, trying his best to not let the overwhelming feeling of disgust take over. The very thought of moving around in someone else’s body—it irked him having control of arms and legs that weren’t his, or to feel his— _ is it his?— _ skin rub against each other, or to feel this temperature and humidity explicitly. Arthur would rather wander around in misery than feel  _ alive _ .

In an attempt to distract himself, Arthur shifted his attention to the other items in the room. Starting with the mint green curtains that were drawn open; letting some of the light seep in his room, even with the sun barely set in the sky. His eyes glanced over the intimidating machinery that tracked his vitals, it’s pipes attached here and there, one of them pierced under his skin, surprised that he didn’t notice it earlier on.  Next to his hospital bed stood a plastic bedside table, cracks decorating the drawers, a knob out of place. On it was a fruit basket, a delicacy of fresh fruits wrapped in cellophane, tied with a purple ribbon with a yellow card attached to it.

_ If you’re reading this, you’re not dead. That’s cool. - K.J. _

Before Arthur could try and guess who K.J. was, the door had gently swung open, a skinny individual standing in its path with arms filled to the brim with snacks from the vending machine. It was only after he walked in and set the food down the couch and look towards Arthur with a pleased expression did he recognize him.

“Oh! You’re up!” Kieran grinned as he grabbed a metal stool, situating it next to Arthur’s bed, sitting comfortably as soon as he did. “How are you feeling?”

“I-I’m fine, I guess.” Arthur answered with hesitation, paying no attention to the other things Kieran was saying as he took in his current image—how’d he never realized Kieran had green eyes, he wasn’t sure. This Kieran looked almost identical to the Kieran of his lifetime, he was still the same skinny toothpick-looking feller in built, but he didn’t have a chin full of hair, his upper lip bearing no hair either. The long hair he was used to seeing barely reached the lining of his jaw, though rather unkempt showed signs of good grooming.

He looked like a baby with his almost-flawed skin, save for the wide scar that ran across both of his eyes, and the tiny bruise on his right cheek. 

“It’s pretty damn unlucky, huh?” Kieran speaks up, suddenly looking hesitant. “I open up to you and then you get murdered? Mamma always told me to keep my mouth shut, never did anything good.”

“I guess?” Arthur replies unsure. Now that he seemed to take it all in, reality hit him like a truck as he realized that his other self wasn’t generous enough with details as to how he had lived before passing on. Arthur was completely clueless as to what exactly happened before they had even met! Feeling panicked over his realization, Arthur switches the direction of the conversation, weakly pointing at the forming bruise on Kieran's cheek. “What happened there?”

“Oh. Here?” Kieran repeats, wincing in pain as he touches it. “Funny story, people thought that I…ya know...murdered you.” He pauses, finding the word unpleasant to say. “Got tackled and well, here it is.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, pretty dumb huh?” Kieran laughs uncomfortably, humming awkwardly as he trails off. “I’m sorry, you probably want your space, after all the things…”

Arthur shot Kieran a confused look, for the love of everything alive, he had no  **fucking** idea as to what he was saying. There were absolutely no memories of Arthur M. that he could look through—a side effect of whatever form of possession he did. Arthur could tell that whatever it was put a strain between whatever relationship he was supposed to have with Kieran. 

He was his employer, right? 

Did Kieran resign? Employees who would want to resign wouldn’t visit their boss in the hospital, right?

“Yeah, I can tell. You’re quiet again, I’ll go.” Kieran says, rubbing his hands together anxiously, slowly standing from his seat. “Someone else would be visiting you in a while, I saw them in the lobby.”

Arthur was unsure what made him do it, but grabbing his hand and telling him to not go sounded...appropriate. Kieran definitely was part of an important happening before his murder. Arthur was really unsure of where to begin, and how to continue living, but Kieran seems to know. 

It wasn’t like he could end himself and let all this pass, right?

Arthur shook his head, not even entertaining the idea. One death was something he could handle, going through another all over again felt worse—especially one that would be done by his own hands.

“Uh...Arthur?” Kieran mumbles, conscious of the extended skinship. 

“Don’t go.” Arthur mumbles, his (now) onyx eyes meeting with Kieran’s own green ones. Was he just going to say that he wasn’t the Arthur he thinks he knows, give him the whole discussion on Spirits and Souls? Kieran would think he was crazy, _not_ that he should care about what he thinks. There must be some way out of his odd predicament—he didn’t know who he is supposed to be, something of importance  **definitely** happened between them and Kieran was being very vague about it as well, plus he was to live the next of his days, the rest of his life, doing something that would still be in character, something Arthur M. would do.

“Sure, Arthur.” Kieran stutters, sitting back down, even more conscious of how they held hands, taking the initiative to let go. “Are you alright?”

“I-”

“Arthur! You’re alive!”

Arthur looked towards the entrance, feeling his head whirl as he came face-to-face with who he swears to be Sean Macguire grinning at him. Trying to close his eyes in hopes that whatever was going on to him was some form of twisted dream. 

The joke was no longer funny, he thought it was impressive that Kieran was around but now even Sean? 

“Well! you’re looking ugly as ever!” Sean guffaws, clutching his stomach as he leans on the doorframe. “Shame that your injury can’t grant you cosmetic surgery. You’d definitely need it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sean.” A heavy-accent laced voice scolded behind him, just outside of Arthur’s vision. “The man had an accident and you think you can joke around?”

“Come on, lighten up!” Sean grins, taking wide steps inside, his arms resting on his waist. “He’s totally fine! Arthur’s got that natural spirit in him, don’t he, Kieran?”

_"Oh, he's got spirit alright."_ Arthur thought bitterly.

“I-I guess.” Kieran replies. “He really needs his rest though, Sean.”

“See.” The same accented voice taunted, getting closer, Arthur’s anticipation on edge as the voice felt so damn familiar. “The head nurse already told you to keep the noise down. The head trauma won’t do him any good.”

“You don’t know half of the mumbo-jumbo that doctor said, Karen.” Sean replies, to which Arthur tenses. “You ain’t gotta pretend!”

“Why I oughta!” Karen screeched, finally walking inside, a bottle of wine held overhead. 

“Come on, guys.” Kieran whines, standing from his seat to stop the ruckus. “Can you settle down?”

Arthur gripped his blankets as he took in the scene in front of me, trying to process the presence of people he swore he’d never see again. Sean had died in Rhodes, Karen was nowhere to be found one day, and Kieran...lost his head. They were supposed to have passed on, and yet they were in front of him as if nothing had happened.

This Sean looked eerily similar to the Sean he knew, except he, just like Kieran, bore a scar by his eyes—not too wide, just a split right above his eyebrow—his beard in much better shape and form, his physique leaner than the Sean that he knew. 

Karen looked the same as well, save for the ponytail she harbored, he was used to her hair being in curls and buns, even the shade of purple that he saw her wear everyday in camp reincarnated itself to a purple button up and washed-out jeans. 

Arthur felt his throat tighten up, overloaded with the information he was trying to process. He didn’t know how to be Arthur M., he didn’t understand why Kieran, Sean or Karen are here and he still can’t swallow the fact that he was moving around in a body that wasn’t his. It felt disgusting, revolting, the mere idea of things moving around that wasn’t his.

“Arthur. Arthur?” 

He didn’t know who was speaking, but he was coming to hate his own name. It wasn’t him they were calling, it was the other Arthur they were calling and he was expected to respond? 

“Are you alright?”

No.  
_ No.  
_ **NO.**

He was far from alright, he was distraught, upset, confused and now in pain as he felt the injury on his side stir up. Arthur groaned and rubbed his temples. It was too much, it was all far too much.

“Where are you hurting?” Kieran grabbed Arthur’s shoulders and straightened him out, worried and hesitant to reach and massage his temples for him as he observed his fingers twitch in exhaustion. “Is it here? Does your head hurt, Arthur?”

“Stop!” Arthur cries out, surprising the three of them. “Stop calling me that. I’m not him, aren’t I?”

“You…” Kieran muttered, nervous in repspone, instead looking at Karen who mirrored his worried expression. Kieran knew that if anyone could talk sense to Arthur, it was her. She had that hold on him.

“Arthur?” Karen spoke, slowly replacing Kieran’s hands with her own, telling him to call the doctor as he passed. “What’s going on? Tell me.”

Arthur looked up, trying to stay steady as he attempted to respond, his entire body shaking. Taking in her features as she faced him. Feeling his headache worsen as he could only remember how the Karen he knew looked, but this wasn’t her.

It wasn’t her, **was it**?

Even with Sean, it wasn’t him. It **couldn’t** be him. Right?

Then.

“Who…” Arthur stuttered, feeling his eyelids get heavier. “Who are you?” Arthur says breathlessly before falling limp in Karen’s arms.

* * *

Kieran sat on the sofa situated diagonally to the hospital bed, his bruised lips gnawed out of habit, his legs shaking as he peered on Arthur anxiously. Karen told him of what happened right after he came back with the doctor. She looked scared as she retold him Arthur’s words.

“He doesn’t know me, Kier.” Karen whispered. “I-I don’t think he knows Sean either. He looked so confused and...hurt.” She bit her lip. “He didn’t hit his head that bad did he?”

“The police didn’t really say much.” Kieran replies, urging Sean to watch the doctor carefully. “But he did hit the edge of the floor really hard. I guess, since his floor is tiled, it...I don’t know?...rattled his brain?”

“Kieran!?” 

“I don’t know, okay?” Kieran cried out, rubbing his hands. “I don’t think he knows me, either. He was really quiet and out of character when he woke up earlier.”

“Fuck.” Karen curses, running her hand in her hair, messing up her ponytail. “I knew amnesia was a thing, I watched movies about it, but damn.”

“Excuse me?” The doctor intercepts, grabbing the attention of the three. “The tests don’t account for any lesions in the brain that could result in amnesia, however, the intense stress and trauma that must have accumulated due to his unfortunate situation must have caused it. I can’t say for sure till we run more tests.”

“Won’t you be frying his brain then?” Sean snipes, already on edge with the hospital equipment around him. “I read about all you quacks on the internet!”

“Sean! Shut the fuck up.” Karen growls, resisting the urge to hit him. “But won’t that mean keeping Arthur in the hospital then?”

“I have to be honest with you, Ma’am.” The doctor continues, putting aside his clipboard. “There isn’t much we can do in terms of amnesia, there is no medicine that can cure it and most patients get through it when their immediate family members feed them information or therapy. The most we can do is to find out the source of this, hence the tests. It’s up to you if you wish to keep him here for that.”

“Well…” Kieran trailed off, trying to keep his composure, at least enough to form a decision.

“We’ll do that then!” Sean interrupts. “We’ll tell him of the things he needs to know, we can take care of him, can’t we?” He looks at his two friends, trying to sway them towards his idea. “Come on, Karen...Kieran? We know the things we need to know about him, we basically grew up together. We’re co-signed as each other’s guardians. Come on.”

“Arthur would hate being stuck in a hospital room like this…” Karen nods, shooting a look over the doctor’s shoulder. “I bet he’d want to get his hair bleached back as well. He’s always hated his roots.”

“Right?!” Sean shakes her enthusiastically. “Plus, Kieran. You and Arthur live under the same roof, you know how he goes around the house, you can tell him about that.”

“I...guess.” 

“It’s decided then!” Sean says. “As soon as Arthur wakes up, or you know he’s ready for discharge, we’re taking him.”

And so that happened. 

Sean and Karen left a while ago to get the papers signed, and to try and take note of the precautions in home treating Arthur’s condition. Kieran wished they would get that done sooner, he would rather they be here than be all alone when Arthur wakes up.

Luck wasn’t apparently on his side this time either.

Kieran stands up immediately as he sees Arthur stir in his sleep, groaning in response to the light hitting his face, resulting in Keiran walking over to draw the curtains shut.

“A-Arthur?” Kieran stutters, reluctantly resting his palm on Arthur’s cheek. “A-are you up?”

“Who?” Arthur groans, moving away from Kieran’s touch. 

“The doctor said that…” Kieran hums. “You may have amnesia? Retrograde amnesia. So you can’t...really remember who I am, and Karen, Sean and I figured that we should take you home. To, you know, fill you in?”

“Retrograde amnesia?”

“Yeah, so...um.” Kieran rubs the back of his head. “I guess, I gotta introduce myself again to you?” He chuckles before sitting up straight. “I’m Kieran Duffy and...I’m…”

_ “We don’t have to see each other that way, right?” _ __   
_ “I don’t know, Kieran...I’m sorry.” _ _   
_ __ “I didn’t think it would get this far.”

“You’re what?” Arthur pushes, finding Kieran's sudden pause uncomfortable.

Kieran looked at Arthur, unsure of where exactly he stands in his life at this point. He didn’t remember, rather, he  _ couldn’t  _ remember. The option of clarifying things between them was no longer available, there wasn’t anything he could do.

“I’m your friend.” Kieran smiles shakingly, “I’m your best friend.”

He was back to square one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEEEEW. God. I really wanna stay on Arthur's POV but damn that switch to Kieran felt refreshing.


	7. One week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been too long ahhh! I hope you'd enjoy this chapter <3

Kieran was annoying.

Well, from what Arthur could recall, Kieran has always been annoying. The ex-O’Driscoll could do the least and it would rile everyone up in camp, going out of their way to bother him with taunts, insults and physical jabs—just enough to hurt but not enough to warrant Dutch and/or Hosea’s scoldings. 

“Have you eaten?” Kieran calls from the attached kitchen as he darts from the cluttered island to the stove, plating the semi-burnt toast, sunny-side egg and chopped bacon, walking to the dining area balancing two plates, placing Arthur’s share on the table before taking the seat opposite of him. “I burnt the toast a bit, but you can always scrape them off. Would you want me to?”

But right now, Kieran was just even more annoying.

“You’re welcome.” Kieran says, unbothered by Arthur’s brooding glare, humming an unfamiliar tune as he cuts his sausages in half. 

“I’m not hungry.” Pushing the dish aside, the porcelain clinking with Kieran’s own plate, the yolk of his egg splitting on impact. 

“The doctor says you have to eat a lot.” Kieran insists, pushing the plate back. “Karen and Sean said that too, just until this week ends.”

Ah, so it has been a week since he woke up in this new form, then?

Moving around limbs that weren’t his, living life as someone who has amnesia because, no matter how hard he tried, he could not recognize the role that his other self had built around the people whose faces were eerily alike with those in his own lifetime—a phenomenon he has (slowly) been able to digest.

“Please?” Kieran speaks. “At least eat some bread. I can grind you coffee afterwards, or would you prefer hot chocolate?”

Which means it’s been a week since this _pampering_ began.

Apparently, he and Kieran had lived under the same roof—been so for a number of years now. 

When he was discharged, Karen told him how Kieran and he had apparently even moved in together, joint at the hip as they shared the workload with interior designing, landscaping and even inviting her to paint the outside of the house a brighter color because it was he who says: “Beige is such a drab color, dude.”

It was just like the other Arthur to act like that but _that Arthur_ was not _the Arthur_ now. From the bleached hair that sat atop his head, to the darker irises, the baby soft skin and leaner physique. This wasn’t him. It was the other Arthur.

Continuously putting up with that was making his head hurt.

“Arthur?” 

“I’ll go out for a jog.”

“Wait!” 

Kieran scrambles out of his seat, grabbing Arthur’s wrist, the contact like hot coal as he removes his hand just as quickly. “The doctor advised you to rest and let this all sink in.” He gestures to Arthur’s torso, his palms open and face worried. “Plus the bandages, the wound, you shouldn’t aggravate it, yes? You gotta rest. And you haven’t even eaten!”

It’s been a week since Arthur felt as if he couldn’t do things on his own. With Kieran keeping him at arm’s length, doing things for him from changing his bandages, scheduling the medicines he had to take, cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner, constantly barraging him with questions about how he’s feeling, all the whilst avoiding questions that could bring up discussions of his lost memories.

Kieran was obviously hesitant about which memory he should bring back, walking on eggshells around him and doing as much to take over conversations for him, be it with the newspaper boy, milkman or even the middle-aged jogger that routed their street yesterday. Admittedly, they all had asked how he was and brought up topics that he wouldn’t have any idea to answer but the near-codependency that Kieran was trying to form wasn’t working for him.

“I’m going for a walk then.”

“Arthur!” Kieran stood in front of him, arms widespread to block him from their door. “Come on. Why are you acting like this?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kieran’s firm stand withers as Arthur roared, shrinking back and looking away in hurt as the taller man towered him. “I don’t need you pamperin me like some kind of baby, I don’t need you cooking up my meals, or talking to people for me. I don’t even wanna know what kind of shitty connection I have with you ‘cause whatever it is is only pissing me off. I don’t need to be dependent on nobody!”

_Leave me alone._

“I…” Kieran shifts his feet, fingers intertwining as he clasped his hands together. “I just wanted to make sure you recover well.”

“I didn’t ask that you do!” Arthur shoves past him, Kieran staggering as he did. “I’m gonna go on a walk, don’t follow me, if I pass out in the middle of the damned street, then so be it.”

Arthur huffed in pride as Kieran nodded weakly, dragging his steps back to the dining room, consuming his breakfast, the clinking of the silverware to plate mute as Arthur shut the door behind him.

Unfortunately, the walk was the exact opposite of what Arthur needed, with the morning breeze still, there was nothing to cool his back as the sun berated his skin, forming a slick sheen of sweat on his forehead and arms as he continued to roam the long street, his feet starting to drag as he he trekked further, an unfamiliar stinging sensation grabbing his attention.

Why he was so exhausted after a short stroll was beyond him. 

“Arthur?” 

How his feet led him to Karen’s home was beyond him as well.

“Karen.” Forgive him if the name felt foreign after not saying it for a century. “Hey.”

“Why are you out and about?” 

“I needed a walk.” Arthur shifts in his position, feeling uncomfortable under Karen’s scrutinizing gaze, her presence as intimidating as he could recall.

“Why isn’t Kieran with you?” Karen asks, her polished finger pressing on her cheek, cigarette balancing on her lips.

“I don’t need him to be with me.” Arthur tries not to roll his eyes. “I can walk on my own.”

“Can you now?” Her voice was laced with sarcasm, just as it had been back then, a tint of sincerity and care under it all. “Bet you can’t with your injury bleeding on you like that.” 

Arthur eyebrows shot in surprise, Karen’s observation garnering all his attention as he glanced at his side. His sweat-drenched polo now stained with a small spot of blood. “Ah.”

“I would love to invite you in and change your bandages for you.” Karen puts out her cigarette with the heel of her flip-flops, a smile on her colored lips. “But I’m fucking scared of blood.”

“Are you now?” 

“Yup, but I can be here to listen as to why you and Kieran are fighting.” Karen walks past her untrimmed yard, the grass grazing her ankle, pressing her arms on the flat surface of her white fence, looking up at Arthur with mischief in her eyes. “Trouble in paradise?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Arthur says, taking a cautious step back, finding her high skill in observation slightly threatening. “We’re not fighting, I just wanted him off my back.”

“Artie,” That’s an odd nickname, come to think of it, she also called Kieran “Kier”. “Is Kieran doing that thing where he becomes just a lil bit _too_ meticulous?”

Arthur didn’t find the need to answer something that seemed so obvious to Karen. 

“Isn’t he endearing?” Karen smiles with her eyes, her blonde hair framing the sincere expression. “I remember when I got the case of the sniffles and he went completely overboard with the patches and essential oils some woman totally conned him to buying.”

“Is this normal then?” Arthur groaned, not pleased with the information Karen is feeding him. 

“I’m guessing Kier hasn’t really told you anything, hm?” Karen chuckled, standing straight to ruffle Arthur’s hair, tutting at the witch’s broom texture. “I won’t get ahead of him, I’m sure he wants to tell you things in order and not overwhelm you and all. He can just be a bit dense with the concept of personal space, is all.”

Karen sighed and flashed Arthur a flat smile. “But I’ll tell you just this much. You and Kieran got stories from way before you got here in Valentine, and even before this whole stabbing ordeal, you two’ve been watching each other’s backs, like this whole let me pay you back for this favor I’m doing that never ends. Shaking up the demographic of this place when two men move in together was _the most_ amusing-”

“Are we in a relationship?” Arthur interrupts, an unfamiliar mix of mellow and panic rushing to his chest, the feeling pulsing through his arms.

“Ah…” Karen tilts her head, face deep in thought. “I don’t know about that, but it’s not as if we’d be completely surprised if you were. You should ask Kieran that.”

“He won’t tell me anything, and I don’t think I want to either.” 

“You’re gonna have to, Arthur.” Karen speaks, her voice firm, lips pointed. “One, he gotta fix those bandages. Two, he definitely needs to redye your hair.”

“He dyes my hair?”

“Of course he does.” Karen grins cheekily, pink dusting her plump cheeks. “Three. Kieran has always been a bit too much, and I’m sure he just worried a bit too much for you. But you gotta understand that he meant the best, and he isn’t wrong either. I mean, you’re fucking bleeding on the street, dude.”

“You really can’t change my bandages for me?” Arthur asks again, a slight hint of hope in his voice. 

“I’m fucking terrified of blood.” Karen flatly replies, looking back with her eyes on her door. “I can get you some hair dye though. You still going for a bleached blonde?”

Arthur runs his fingers to his hair, wincing in pain as more than a few strands gets caught in between. “You got something that is like...a darker shade of blonde?” Figured the most Arthur can do is to look like his actual self while in someone else’s body. 

“New look?”

“Something like that.” Arthur winced as he felt his wound act up. “Maybe a glass of water too?”

“Abusing my kindness, huh?” Karen jokes, scrunching her nose, walking back to her porch.

“Just a ‘lil bit.” He replies as her door shut.

It’s been a week and he doesn’t need to squint to see the good parts of it. 

Kieran was, as Karen would say, a bit _too_ meticulous, sure. But, then again, Kieran was there whenever he felt nauseous, shifting the ingredients in their cupboard for those that fit with his diet and palate and taking more grocery trips than necessary. He was also there when his injury limited him from raising his arms, with Kieran volunteering to wash his hair for him. And the times Kieran carried the half-hearted threats to his life to heart every time they had to painstakingly change his bandages, swearing not to let anyone know how Arthur actually had a normal pain tolerance and not the god-like leniency to it that he had set himself.

“Catch!” Karen’s voice snaps Arthur out of his thoughts, fumbling with the box dye in his hands for a few seconds. “Here’s a glass of water too.” Karen pushes the glass to his lips, tilting it forward. 

“I can drink it myself.” Arthur grumbles but drinks anyway. 

“It’s practice for when Kieran does it too.”

“I’ll kill him.” His words a bit slurred as he continued to swallow.

“Please don’t.” Karen says, pulling the glass away. “I don’t want you going to jail and I can’t be left alone with Sean’s dumbass. Even a pining woman such as myself can’t handle all that."

“Sean?” Arthur raises his eyebrow, a hazy memory from the past brushing past his mind.

“Don’t judge me for my shitty taste. I know all about it.” Karen groans, failing to hide the flush on her skin, pushing a plastic bag in Arthur’s direction. “Get going, your gut’s gonna burst soon.”

Arthur cringed at her language, but bid her farewell, taking careful steps back, wincing as the pain tripled as the minutes passed. Finding himself filled with relief as he spots the brightly painted house of his, pausing momentarily as he finds a cop car parked in front of it, noting that it wasn’t there when he left an hour ago.

Walking towards it, he leans to the window, finding the vehicle unoccupied. Before he could wonder where the owner might be, a gruff voice filled with mockery reaches his ears.

Arthur takes a deep breath, trying to calm his composure and prepare himself before turning to the direction of his yard, where the owner of the voice is most definitely on. 

He has come to understand that an unlikely version of him exists in this time—and he is currently walking around as that person—there is also a version of Kieran, one of Karen and one of Sean. There would obviously be another version of _him_.

It was quite disappointing that Arthur had to cross paths with this _rat_ , so early on in this new form of his.

It’s only been a week, afterall.

“I said he ain’t here, Micah.” Arthur groans as he recognizes Kieran’s voice, obviously irate with who he’s talking to, more than eager to finish the conversation and push the offending presence away. “Even if he is, it’s not like I’m telling you that he is.”

“God, if I wasn’t in uniform.” Micah replies, just as annoyed with Kieran but his domineering mockery still firm. “I would have banged your skinny head against the pavement”

“Ain’t stopped you before, rat.” Kieran grates, his voice shaking but his toughness holding on. 

Arthur takes this as his sign to interrupt them.

“Hello.” 

Micah and Kieran looked at him as he spoke, their eyes drifting at the red spot that was much larger now on the side of his polo, a respective expression of sadism and worry on their faces.

Arthur twitches and groans as he takes in Micah’s face, the gruelling headache from his painful memories hitting him more than usual. It wasn’t surprising, most especially now that he was face-to-face with the _rat_ that tore up his life. He would have decked Micah’s dumb face had he not felt the collective exhaustion of his walk to and from his place, the stinging pain of his injury and the headache that rattled his skull. 

“Arthur!” Micah welcomes, not even bothering to hide the thick layer of sarcasm in his voice. “I’m **so** glad to see you _alive and kicking_.”

“Who?” Arthur asks, keeping his amnesia persona in check. “Do you own the car in front of the yard? Can you get it out, its _fucking_ unsightly.”

“I see the hate is still there.” Micah tutts, his calloused fingers tracing Arthur’s jaw, gripping tight on his chin as he did. “Am I the only person you remember? I almost feel like crying.”

“Micah, fuck off.” Kieran calls out, his earlier firm tone back. “Serve and protect, my ass. Just leave.”

Micah clicked his tongue and shoved Arthur aside, the action not doing his injury any favors. “DVL wants to see you.”

“He doesn’t even know who DVL is.” Kieran grumbles, his arms crossing against his chest. 

“Then get him to remember.” Micah says, tapping his foot per word. “Make yourself useful, scar-face.”

Kieran scowls, his hand raising to trace the scar across his eyes almost instinctively, keeping himself calm in check as Micah got in his car and drove away, a blinding sight of red and blue flashing lights momentarily having his attention before running to Arthur’s side.

“Who?” Arthur asks again, meeting Kieran halfway, swinging his free arm across Kieran’s back, the plastic that held the box dye in the other. “An asshole, most likely.”

“You aren’t wrong.” Kieran sighs, walking them back to their door. “I’m guessing you went to Karen’s.”

“How are you sure?” Arthur mutters, taking slow breaths as Kieran helped him lay on the sofa. 

Damn it, Kieran just cleaned this. 

“Are you telling me you know how to pick your color for once?” Kieran lightly jokes, putting the plastic bag to a table near the couch. “I’ll get new bandages and then let’s dye your hair, alright?” 

“Sure.” Arthur nods, keeping a watchful eye on Kieran as he walks to the drawer in the living room, fishing out a large aid box, and grabbing a roll of bandages inside it. Kieran assists him in sitting up, carefully treading the hem of his polo and lifting it off him. Arthur doesn’t miss the double take that Kieran brushes his bare torso, feeling conscious despite having done this several times before.

_“Are we in a relationship?”_

_“I don’t know about that, but it’s not as if we’d be completely surprised if you were.”_

“I don’t gonna tell you that this’ll hurt, do I?” Kieran jokes, hoping to lift the tension from their argument earlier on that began to take place. Arthur notices the hesitation in his hands, almost as if touching him was criminal. “May I?”

“I’m bleeding, Kieran.” Arthur states flatly, hoping to be on the same humorous wavelength as him, dropping the act as Kieran looked at him with worry. “Yeah, it’s fine.” 

_"You should ask Kieran that.”_

“Kieran.” Arthur speaks, wincing as he felt the fresh roll touch his skin. “This morning…”

“It’s okay.” Kieran interrupts, tying the bandage and pulling on it to make sure it’s secure, refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes. “I probably was being too much, I was just really worried and…”

“And you were right.” Arthur interrupts, looking down, pressing a palm on the corners of his mouth in a futile attempt to push down the embarrassment of his words. “I walked and I bled. So continue worrying.” 

He doesn’t need to look at Kieran to know that he was smiling, controlling the urge to do so even when he heard him _skip_ to where he had placed the dye.

Kieran sat on the floor in front of him, an apologetic smile on the other’s face. “I owe you.” He says, fumbling with the seal of the box. “I know you got lots of questions now, so I’ll answer them, you can ask me anything.”

 _“_ _You and Kieran got stories from way before you got here in Valentine.”_

“Anything?” Arthur repeated, looking at how Kieran busied himself with the dye formula. 

“Yeah.” Kieran hummed, his nose scrunching at the sharp smell of the chemical. 

“Then…” Arthur reaches for Kieran, one hand tracing the other’s bony chin, lifting it up to meet his eyes, interrupting his task, the other brushing the scar that decorated his face. “Tell me about this scar?”

Arthur didn’t miss the way Kieran tensed under his touch, the way he evaded his eyes, shrinking on the spot. 

“Wow.” Kieran chuckles, feeling a bit awkward “I know I said anything...but wouldn’t you wanna start somewhere else?”

 _“No. Tell me."_ He thinks, pressing his lips together, but his reply betraying him. “Sure?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Micah and all cops are bastards, please access this carrd to find ways to help: https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#petitions
> 
> It would also be nice if you can sign this petition to junk the anti-terror bill that could possibly endanger our privacy: http://chng.it/7WrfrSJ5Fd


	8. Information, Information, Information

“Alright. Can you repeat what I’ve told you so far?” 

“I’m Arthur Morgan.” Arthur sits up straight, numb to the pinching sensation on his side. “I’m 27 years old.” Pointing his index towards Kieran. “You and I have been friends since we were kids, and have been roommates for 4 years.” He glances at the framed group photo on the side table. “I met Karen and Sean here in Valentine, been friends since then, and you think they should stop dancing around each other’s feelings.”

“Maybe you can leave out the part about Sean and Karen next time, and try sounding less robotic.” Kieran jokes, gathering the used brush and gloves of the box dye. “I feel like a villain feeding you false info.”

“You could be.”

“I’m not gonna hold back information, Arthur.” Kieran tut-tuts, throwing the items in the waste bin. “I told you, you can ask me anything.”

“Anything, sure.”

“Except for the scar, and the specific events of the unfortunate accident that happened which caused us to move here in the first place.” Kieran rambles on. “I think it’s best to not disclose what happened to me that night, and to just fill you in with what you witnessed.”

“I was away the night it happened.” Arthur says, failing to drop the robotic tone in his voice. “You said that I had moved out with my fiance that time, went back to visit and the cops were there.”

“Yeah.” Kieran nods, walking behind Arthur and reaching in with a towel to dry his hair. “Also, you did use the shampoo with the box when you were washing this off?”

“I basically know nothing, Kieran.” Arthur sighs, hesitantly allowing himself to lean towards Kieran’s hands. “You told me that things happened and we were told to move away.”

“It’s not like you knew about it before you had amnesia anyway.” 

“You wouldn’t know that.”

“I’m still not taking any chances, Arthur.” Kieran groans, running his hands through his damp hair. “That night was awful.”

“Not as awful as being told that Micah is my cousin.” Arthur rolls his eyes, the earlier disgust and overwhelming feeling coming back at him. “That itself sounds traumatic.”

“You sound as if he’d done you wrong in a previous life.” Kieran jokes, unaware of how Arthur’s shoulder stiffed as he did. “In fact, this whole thing sounds something like that. Something you’d see in those mystery-genre movies.”

“Which you like.” Arthur adds, reaching for the hand mirror next to him. “Is it brown yet?”

“Which _we_ like.” Kieran corrects, plugging the hairdryer on and speaking louder as the machine blows out hot air. “Yeah. Just needs drying to make the color pop.”

Arthur nods in acknowledgement and further relaxes as Kieran pulls on the strands and rubbed at his scalp, intervaling with a wide-tooth comb that sends chills down his neck, tickling him when it would bite at his nape. It was surprising how relaxed he felt as Kieran went on with his task, the loud whir of the blower deafening the thoughts that dared pierce his brain. What he gathered so far, however, ran free. 

He and Kieran have been friends since they were kids. Kieran was their gardener's son and Arthur was the eldest son of some philanthropist (Arthur doesn’t need names, it isn’t important). They’ve mostly been around each other until Arthur moved out to live with his fiance (concluding that he knew how this phenomenon works, Arthur believes that would be where Mary Linton comes to place, and he didn’t need to be reminded of her). On a particular evening, Arthur was supposed to visit his home but instead found cops that littered their home questioning neighbors, possible witnesses, and the people who were present that night.

“ _A burglary gone south._ ” He recalls Kieran’s statement. “ _My dad was one of the victims._ ”

_One of the victims_. Which means there were more casualties, It’s in my best interest not to be so attached to who they might be.

From there, Arthur’s father had insisted that they move away, to prevent more people from targeting the household. He said that it was best to bring Kieran with him, to respect the dead’s wishes. Quickly they moved here in Valentine Villages and have been here since then, unharmed, save for the incident that got them in this amnesia situation in the first place.

“We should meet up with DVL shouldn’t we?” Kieran ponders, running his hands in Arthur’s hair to check for spots he might have missed. 

“Can I take a wild guess as to who DVL is?” Arthur asks, relying on his newfound confidence with how this whole thing worked out. 

“Uhh...sure, I guess.”

“Is it Dutch Van der Linde?” Arthur answers, knowing he got it spot on as he felt Kieran’s fingers go rigid on top of his head. 

“Are you getting your memory back?”

“No.” Arthur mumbles, deciding never to tell Kieran about this weird soul, spirit and empty body thing. Who knows how he would act if he found out the Arthur he grew up has most likely passed to the other side of life. “Just a name that popped up in my head.”

“That’s weird, why **him**?” Kieran mumbles, a pout on his lips. “It’s not like you spent more time with him or anything.”

“I don’t know. It’s just his name. I don’t really know anything else.”

“Let’s just take that as improvement.” Kieran sighs as he walks back to unplug the hairdryer. “We’re taking the bus, by the way, I don’t want to take my chances on your muscle memory when it comes to driving.”

“Can’t you drive?” 

“I can’t.” Kieran grits his teeth in comical annoyance. “I want to, but I just can’t calm down when they tell me to press which button or paddle, whatever you call it.” He says as he walks out the door, looking back to check if Arthur followed. “You usually do the driving, I don’t think I want Sean to force three people on his motorcycle.”

“It almost sounds as if that happened.”

“I won’t remind you of it, nor do I want to be reminded of it.” Kieran says exasperatedly, turning to lock the door behind them. 

Arthur chuckles, walking next to Kieran who continued to ramble about things the trio had done. Feeling quite disappointed with the lack of imagery his brain should be able to provide. It was beyond him as to why his other self would want to let all of this go, and though he didn’t admit it, he was upset that it wasn’t he who experienced it himself.

He would have loved to see Karen flustered over Sean and vice-versa. It would have been nice to have the picturesque view of the mountains flash in his head when Kieran told him of the time they all trekked the mountains, instead a different setting sun came to mind (with a context he refuses to get back in). Arthur thinks it would be ridiculously fun to understand all the inside jokes Kieran has been holding himself back from saying as they talked and walked till they reached the bus stop just outside the village gates. 

Then again, it wasn’t he who had done all that with them.

“Hey, I’m curious.” Kieran piques. “Besides Dutch is there something else you can remember?”

Arthur almost wants to say that he remembers Kieran and Sean, but not in the way he would like. That he could vividly picture Karen and how she swayed with the liquor, but can't find an answer as to where she headed to when things went to shit. That he knows Micah and Dutch and can’t brush off the anxiety that filled him to the brim every time they had to be brought up.

“No.” Arthur answers, his spirit deflating as he did. 

“Maybe there are some things you still want to ask me?”

Arthur isn’t sure as to what triggered the thought but he wanted to ask about John. Where exactly was he in all this? Was his fate interwoven with this life as well? Was he of any importance to this life? Could there be a John too?

But then that snarky bitter part of him comes resurfacing, scolding him for thinking of John despite getting the better ending. As far as he can tell, it was best for Arthur to not find him when he was still a Wanderer, best not to get so hung up with what he could be doing. 

Kieran was still looking at him, patient as ever.

“Do…” Arthur starts, trying not to space out. “Do I have other...people with me? Like Karen or Sean.”

“Friends?”

“I guess.” Forgive him for finding the word completely awkward, _friends_ weren’t things he made. One was either family, enemy or stranger—nothing in between that.

“Well, Karen has yet to contact the rest about this whole thing.” Kieran replies, a handful of people coming to mind. “There’s Lenny,

Arthur held back the tired sigh that threatened to slip from his mouth. If it were up to him, that young boy should have not made bonds with him, there must be something better that he could be doing right now than getting in the messes of a man with amnesia such as himself.

“Mary-beth.”

Last he heard of her was when he spotted her name on the cover of a book that gained traction across the country. He didn’t want to hover around her either, nor did he feel the need to. Like a lot of the people in their gang, she was much better being not affiliated with him.

”and Albert, I guess. He hasn’t really seen any of the messages we sent, probably because of the exhibits.”

“Who?”

“I’ll tell you about them when they drop by.”

Who’d have known a photographer he had interacted with for a few times would be of any importance to him.

Or to that Arthur.

He keeps forgetting that he and his other self were different. However, with the similarities that they have, were they exactly any different?

“I think Tilly already knows, but she hasn’t gone for a visit since her adoptive mother came to town and moved places for the betterment of their business maybe 3 months ago?”

Arthur almost tells himself that Tilly would be better off not meeting Arthur but then he is reminded of the girl’s unfortunate association with the Foreman Brothers and that, unlike others, the Van der Lindes were a saving grace. Maybe there’s a good side in all this.

“Don’t worry, Arthur!” Kieran says, a toothy grin on his face. “It’ll take some time but things will be back to normal again, and it’s really fun remembering these things with you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Kieran echoes, shifting in his seat, suddenly hyper aware of how close they’ve been the whole time. “It’s fun, is all. Remembering the things we’ve done and the people that we’ve surrounded ourselves with. I wouldn’t want anything to change.” He smiles even brighter, “well, of course, it would be cool if you didn’t get stabbed either.”

“I think that would have been cool too.” Arthur answers almost awkwardly. Though true, there is a small part of him that’s a bit thankful for the events to fall in place like they did. They were fucking troublesome, sure, but something about being given a second chance in things is making him much happier than he first thought it would.

“Oh. We’re here!” Kieran cries out, reaching for the button situated by the windowpane, signaling the bus to halt in the near stop. Guided by Kieran, he and Arthur hopped off the bus, looking at the panel that spelled out SCARLETT POLICE in big steel letters. 

“Is this?” Arthur points at the sign. “Different from the place you were arrested?”

“Huh?” Kieran looks at Arthur confused. “I mean yeah, but when did I tell you where I was arrested?”

“ _Shit. That was in my different form_ .” Arthur thinks, panic flooding his system. " _This Arthur was half-dead when Kieran was arrested. The most he told me was that people thought he murdered me...him...whatever.”_

“Uh...Didn’t you tell me?” He answers, keeping eye contact to dispel suspicions. “Yeah. In the hospital. When I asked you about a bruise you got.”

“Ah I did say that didn’t I?” Kieran notes, shrugging his shoulders. “You passed out though. I didn’t think you’d remember.”

Arthur chooses to keep quiet to calm himself as they stepped in the station. Spotting Micah, who loitered by the table nearest the holding cell, swigging from a silver flask (that was obviously not allowed during duty), with displeasure. The negative impression bouncing back as the blonde flashed them a smug grin. 

“Well!” Micah cries, opening his arms out. “The guest of honor has _graced_ us with his presence.” He hops off his chair, walking with wide steps towards them, jabbing an offending finger at Arthur’s chest. “How fucking grateful we are.”

“I don’t want to be here anymore than you do.” Arthur answers, keeping his levelheadedness. Even if he wanted to punch the living force out of him. “I’m here to see Dutch like he asked me to.”

“I see scar-face has made you remember things.” Micah sneers, sending Kieran an intimidating glare that the recipient would not admit to being affected to. “Good job, scars.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, **_Kieran_ ** did.” Arthur stresses on his name, it was enough that the Kieran he knew was ridiculed with O’Driscoll the whole time, this Kieran could at least not be bothered with that. “Imagine my horror that a rat-faced guy like you would be my cousin.”

“Half-cousin, you shit.”

“That’s a blessing.” Arthur states. “Where do I find DVL?”

“Fuck you.” Micah spits, walking back to resume his loitering. 

Arthur rolls his eyes at the obvious retreat, and directs the question to another officer who witnessed the exchange, eyes nervously darting between him and the blonde that was obviously glaring much harder than he should, but ultimately directing him to where the office was on the second floor. 

The second floor was not as cramped as the first—instead of being faced with officers and detectives who were in the middle of either breaking up fights or interviewing witnesses, half of the space occupied by the holding cell—this one was cluttered with white-collared desk and computer tasking clerks, the tip-pity-tap sound of their keys echoing with the click of the their shoes hitting the tile as papers were rushed around.

“Accounting.” Kieran comments, “The whole budgeting and paperworks are done here. The place acts as an extension office to the Mayor’s, considering how he’s here most of the time.”

“That’s an irresponsible mayor.”

“Ah. Well.” Kieran mumbles. “Arthur, there might be something I didn’t tell you.”

“What?” Arthur asks, tilting his head to the side. “Is Dutch the mayor that I magically pissed off?”

“Well…”

Timing has chosen to step in and answer Arthur as the door to the wide office opens, presenting himself to the two and the rest of the clerks who took a few second break away from their screen. Arthur isn’t sure if it was the white hair, the wrinkles, or the all-too familiar smile which sent him to spiralback to that feeling of being unprepared for things.

He was prepared for Dutch, he was absolutely ready for how this man could be connected with him. He wasn’t ready for _this._

“Arthur?” the man cries, spotting him easy in the crowd of busy and bent-over-screens employees. “Is that you, son?”

Arthur could only stand frigid as he heard the man identify him as such. Trying to figure out as to why, of all people, it had to be _Hosea_ who was his father.

“Uh…” Arthur steps back awkwardly as Hosea walks close with open arms, the aged man stopping as he spotted the receiver to stagger in his steps. “Kieran?” 

“I’m sorry Mr. Matthews.” Kieran mumbles, head down apologetically. “It’s just that he hasn’t asked about you, and I…”

“It’s alright, Kieran.” Hosea sighs sadly, his eyes still smiling anyway. Hosea faced Arthur, putting his arms down, deciding to save the hug for later, approaching him calmly. “Hello Arthur. I’m Hosea Matthews and I’m your dad.” 

“Why?” 

The question catches both he and Hosea off guard. That was supposed to stay in his thoughts. Between him and whoever was up there watching the mess of an interaction that was supposedly touching—reuniting a son and father.

“Why, you ask…” Hosea mumbles, a slender finger pushing on his chin in thought. “I don’t think I need to give you a talk on how sex works, right?”

“No. No. Forget it.” Arthur panics, finding this to be more awkward than anxiety-inducing that he’d thought. Not that he was completely surprised, Hosea has always been more of a father-figure than his own father has been, more of a mentor than Dutch ever tried to be. It was actually comforting knowing that Hosea was looking out for him even in this life.

There he is again, mistaking that this Arthur was him. 

To correct himself, it was comforting that this Hosea was looking out for this Arthur even in this life. 

It’s exhausting trying to keep this up.

“So, how am I a ‘Morgan’ but you’re a ‘Matthews’?” Arthur asks instead, dissipating the stiff air between them. “Was I adopted?”

“No. I insisted you take Bessie’s last name.” Hosea answers, still surprisingly calm, noticing how soft Arthur’s features go as he mentions the boy’s mother. “I’m assuming Kieran here has filled you in with the unfortunate events that took place in our previous home.”

“A burglary gone south.” Arthur responds verbatim to Kieran. “We had to move out for our safety.”

“I couldn’t lose another son after all.”

“What?”

“Ah! Mr. Matthews!” Kieran intercepts, gripping the old man’s shoulder in panic. “I haven’t told him about that. I don’t think he’s ready. I mean, even before amnesia, it wasn’t something he accepted so easily!”

“Depriving him of important information is not right, Kieran.” Hosea scolds but then the frown on his face doesn’t stay for a second more. “But I suppose you’re right.”

Arthur thinks it’s quite rude that they’re discussing this in front of him. And is surprised how Hosea is simply letting Kieran touch him like that. 

“You haven’t gone yet?” A voice comes up, making Hosea turn around. 

“No, sorry but look who showed up!” Arthur looked behind Hosea’s shoulder and sighed in annoyance. 

There was the man he had prepared himself to expect. But with Hosea here, Dutch’s reveal was dull in comparison.

“Arthur, my boy!” Dutch cries out, his body rigid as he was met with nothing but narrow glares by Arthur. “I’d hope the amnesia would get him to warm up to me more.”

“He has always been stubborn.” Hosea smiles. Arthur takes note how tall he is compared to him, and feels warmth as Hosea reaches up to rub his hair. God, he missed this.

“Kieran.” Hosea calls to the silent boy, still troubled over his actions of depriving knowledge from Arthur. “Have you? With Dutch?”

“No.”

“Well.” Hosea sounds tired. “Leave it to me to repeat this mess again.” Hosea faces Arthur and softly holds his arm, looking at him with a pleased expression. “Arthur, this is Dutch.”

“Hello.” Arthur greets flatly, masking his irritation.

“He’s this station’s Lieutenant.”

“Okay.”

“And he’s my fiance.” Hosea completes the sentence, hesitant to look at Arthur, expecting the most unfavorable reaction.

“I’m sorry, what?” He was right.

Arthur thinks he has come to understand this whole thing, he is confident that whatever twists and turns this timeline will go, he’ll be prepared. He thinks that their roles aren’t far from his previous setting, but **_this_ **is just completely unacceptable.

And again for the umpteenth time, Arthur speaks. “Why him?!”  
  



	9. Just a lil bit altered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I wanna start by being super duper happy with the comments that were left on the previous chapter, I apologize for not getting to them! It's been a really ":/" week for me, but they really really do give me the motivation I need to continue with the story. 
> 
> So thank you a lot for reading this far! <3 You are the best-test!
> 
> Lastly, this chapter (like all other chapters) are un-beta'd and I will get around to fixing them maybe soon, do leave constructive criticisms in my inbox! I think it would really help this fic plus English really isn't my first language (not that I'm incredibly fluent with my first either hngng) 
> 
> That's all!

If a stranger were to ask Arthur what he thought of Dutch back in his own timeline, he would have answered with “ _ How the hell do you know Dutch?”  _ before threatening them with a gun to their head and watch them run with their tail between their legs, give it a few minutes and he would have answered the question in his head with praises over their leader. Admittedly, he has a few screws loose and can get in over his head more times than necessary but Arthur trusted Dutch. 

Perhaps he should have seen the signs of things turning for the worse the moment he demanded Micah be freed from prison despite Hosea, John and his explicit distaste for the man but Arthur (though he may not look like it) was a really emotional man, and if Dutch was disappointed, there was a little chest pain that stood out every time he did.

He’s a complete fool to have tried and reached for the non-existent good in Dutch’s heart during that fateful night, that maybe under the greed, the delusion and budding derangement, there was still something that would prioritize him, and  _ well _ he knew how  _ that _ ended. 

However, this Dutch was a bit different from the Dutch he knew.

First, his name was actually Dutch van der Linde. It wasn’t some pseudonym he identified as to avoid cops (seeing as he is one now). Second, he was  _ nice _ . Not the charismatic, look-for-opportunities-with-this-interaction type of nice but a I’ll-be-nice-because-I-genuinely-care-for-you nice. And lastly, he was engaged to Hosea.

Sure, early in his life there were definitive moments where the two stood as his parents, but to seriously apply that was funny to him. Mainly because he believes Hosea deserved someone other than a philandering two-timer and he didn’t seem like that now--right? 

Arthur paused in his steps. Was this Dutch actually any better than the one before? He believed in redemption arcs and changing for the good but this was Dutch.

“Arthur?” the meek voice brought him out of his thoughts. “You alright there?”

“Kieran.” Arthur says. “About Dutch, how exactly…”

“I’m gonna be blunt and hope you didn’t fall for that shitshow earlier on.” Kieran expresses with distaste. “Hosea is obviously mad with him and he's trying to butter up.”

“I’m sorry?” Arthur was lost. “How? What?”

“Look, before this whole mess with your memories, you have always disliked Dutch.” Kieran sighs. “It’s kind of like your key characteristic as this whole son-who-is-disapproving-of-his-father’s-remarriage role.” He laughs shortly, muffling it with the back of his hand. “I just don’t want this whole amnesia thing to be some tool under Dutch’s belt in being granted access to the family. You  **_really_ ** don’t like him. I remember you guys had dinner last time and Hosea had to drop you off back home because apparently you acted  _ out of bounds _ .”

“What exactly did I do during that dinner?”

Kieran goes rigid and Arthur notices. “I don’t really know. I wasn’t the one with you that time.”

“How did they even meet?” Arthur has understood that this whole phenomenon was some sort of re-run, with the cast the same but the story just a little bit altered, or rather a whole lot altered. 

“Ah...I’m not sure.” Kieran looks discouraged, he really didn’t know. “I’m not privy to that info. I mean, Mr. Matthews just one day dropped in and introduced him, and you were really  _ really  _ loud with how much you were against it. Hosea had to scold you while pushing Dutch out. It was  _ almost  _ funny if I didn’t have to hold you back.”

Kieran smiles and faces Arthur, the smile faltering as quick as it was formed and Arthur knows Kieran must have thought he offended him with the very idea of  _ remembering  _ a fond moment. Though it was unfortunate that Arthur still couldn’t be supplied with the memories of this body’s previous occupant, Arthur has learned to appreciate it from the perspective of those who shared it with him. 

Yes, there were moments that he can’t get back. He can’t visualize the times the other Arthur has stared at his own reflection; did he grin at how  _ ridiculous  _ the bleached hair was or was he grimacing? He couldn’t go back and get a read on what his thoughts were during times where he woke up earlier than usual, on times he woke up with booze still in his system, on what he must have been thinking when he was hundred of feet high up in the mountains with his trusty mountain bike. But, perhaps this was a form of blessing, to make newer memories of his own.

It felt too much. He was no saint back then after all.

“Don’t act like that.” Arthur nudges Kieran’s side. “It’s unfortunate that I can’t remember but that doesn’t mean you should.”

“I’m sorry.” Kieran chuckles, rubbing the back of his head. “You never liked it when I was being too careful around you.” He says almost endearingly, Arthur can see how his face softens at it, vulnerable that he feels the need to look away. 

“Sounds about right.” Arthur replies, distracting his eyes with the greenery of the park they walked in.

Wow, what a particularly pretty shrub.

“I got a question though.” Arthur swears he can hear the pout in his voice, and he knows what’s coming. “How do you remember Dutch?”

“You really aren’t gonna let that one go, no?” Arthur says, fingers twitching to rub Kieran’s hair to tease, he doesn’t. “From a dream, there was a guy who looked like him. It was dark and I was on some mountain and he looked scared.” Did he look pitiful saying that? “And someone was calling for him behind me, going  _ Dutch?!  _ and he ran away. That’s just how I kinda remember him. I was walking in semi-blind with that DVL guess, but he  **_did_ ** turn out to be Dutch.”

“If you think I’m gonna let go of the weird fact you dreamt of Dutch.” Kieran tutts. “You’re wrong. But I’ll interrogate later.”

“You really aren’t gonna let it go, huh?” Arthur laughs boisterously, softly reminded of how this Kieran was just as determined as the Kieran of his time, albeit he wasn’t as stubborn, both Kieran’s had the drive to get what they wanted. Be it finding a way to drop the  _ O’Driscoll  _ nickname or understanding why his friend had weird dreams.

“You almost sound as if you wish I dreamt of you instead, Kieran.” Arthur jokes, a second too late to read into the words he said, it almost sounded like he was flirting. Pfft, with Kieran? Yeah right.

“Yeah, that would be pretty nice.” Kieran answered, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second as if  **_he_ ** couldn’t believe his own words. “Karen or Sean would have been cool too.”

“Sure.” Arthur slurs, finding the interaction worth remembering, squeezing the memory with the rest he had made. 

Putting to heart (and mind) the green of the park, the unequal footing of his left and right due to the stoned pavement, the cold to warm breeze that tickled the nape of his neck, the way bits of his hair would block his peripheral forcing him to full-on turn when talking with Kieran, how he stood a few good inches above Kieran, how he can’t say that his socks were mismatched to just a smidge difference in hue, how the afternoon sun shone on his side brutally but he didn’t look like he mind.

“What do you want for dinner?” Kieran inquires, a grocery list being mentally filled. 

“That onion soup you made last time was pretty good.”

“You think so?” Kieran flashes him a toothy-grin. “Then we can have that as a starter and--”

“Arthur?!” 

The two snapped their heads towards the jolly voice, it’s owner bouncing in his steps as he got closer, the familiarity of the face dawning to Arthur. Good God, he figured he would have met Uncle soon, but this is just too funny.

He was still as old as he remembered, his hair tamer but just as white. He had a waistcoat on and reminded him vividly of the clock human in the Disney movies he had the opportune of watching after tagging along with another wanderer who wanted to check up on his family.

“Arthur!” Uncle calls out again, taking deeper breaths as he reaches them. “I knew that charming face looked familiar!”

Arthur is  _ almost  _ tempted to mirror his enthusiastic expression. He would never admit it but if he were to rank the old men back in camp, Uncle was definitely on the second spot (even if he gave them risky info, drank far too much, and almost got them arrested), but he had to keep himself calm. If Dutch of this time was still a conniving charismatic person of authority, then Uncle was still probably living his life as he wishes.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time! Where have you been?” Uncle asks cheerily, his cheeks plump pink. 

Out of habit, Arthur looks at Kieran, subtly asking for a quick orientation as to who this man was, but was surprised to see a bitter twisted look on Kieran. For whatever reasons it may be, Kieran obviously isn’t as pleased as he was to see this new face. 

He almost looks like he wants to tuck tail and run.

With his obvious option out, Arthur wings their conversation. “Ah. Uncle.” He says unsure, but relieved as the old man reciprocated his acknowledgment. “Yeah, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I really miss seeing you around Arthur.” He says. “Ever since that awful awful  **awful** argument, it’s almost like you disappeared from this world.”

“Ah...Argument. Yes.” Arthur repeats, nudging Kieran’s side because  _ he needed help here ASAP.  _

“Oh I’m sorry, I must have brought up a really bad memory, huh?” Uncle fusses. “It’s just that the household isn’t the same without you! It’s been really gloomy.”

“Has it now?” Arthur nudges Kieran harder. “How’s the...uh...family?”  _ He’s a family man, right? That’s what he’s talking about? Goddamnit Kieran, help me out here. _

Arthur flinches as Uncle’s cheery look contorts to that of confusion. Oh he definitely fucked up. 

“I understand you don’t want to remember it, but that just feels a bit rude.” Uncle frowns, clutching his chest. “It’s obviously not okay. You would know that! You know him more than we do.” 

“Know who?” Arthur asked, completely giving up. Whatever or whoever it was, he’ll get to it much faster this way. 

“Uncle!” a deeper voice calls out from behind Arthur, the steps coming closer. “Don’t just run off like that. Please.”

“I’m sorry, Charles!” Uncle apologizes, his smile barely noticed as Arthur turns around and is faced with the owner of the name, none other than the Charles Smith of this time. He really shouldn’t be surprised, Arthur  **knows** he shouldn’t be surprised, at some point he would meet with everyone but there was something with this Charles that has him a bit taken back.

Was it the long hair with a dainty braid on the side, the white two-piece suit, the polished leather shoes or the ridiculously large expensive looking watch around his wrist?

Arthur concludes that whatever it was Charles had done in the previous lifetime was saintly enough to have this much riches on him. It made him just a bit jealous. He had the air of a rich man they would have robbed blind back then, only if he had any attempts to rob this one, he would definitely lose an arm or two.

“Oh. Arthur.” Charles speaks up, his hands noticeably forming to fists. “Surprised to see you around.”

“I guess?” Arthur replies.

For the record, Charles has always been the better part of the camp, he fought and got mad for the right reasons, he took care of everyone and aided those he felt solidarity with. Arthur has always believed that Charles was simply handed the wrong cards, but he knew how to play and right now, this Charles had all the cards, all the buffs, and he was a master of the game.

“I see you’re still with Duffy.” Charles bites, his disdain for the name obvious. Eyeing the back of the smaller man who shrank as he came to terms with who exactly was behind him. “Still have him clinging on to you like some pet.” 

“Huh?” Arthur wasn’t fond of Charles’ attitude at all, or rather, it didn’t fit with the image in his head. “What are you? With Kieran?”

“Duffy.” Charles emphasizes, making it clear that whichever grudge he has with Kieran was definitely large enough to deprive him of first-name privileges. “I’d have hope you got back to your senses, Arthur.”

“I’m seriously lost with what you’re talking about.” Arthur admits, feeling the tension crawling up his skin. Kieran was still annoyingly silent this entire time.

“I have always hated it when you acted clueless around matters.” Charles sighs. “It’s not lightening up the atmosphere.” He takes a step forward, eyes strongly meeting his own, almost as if he’s looking for something in Arthur that he once lost. “Aren’t you gonna say something?”

“Amnesia!” Kieran cries out, timidly turning towards Charles, still not strong enough to look him in the eye even when the recipient’s pupils were blown wide. “It’s retrograde amnesia. He had an accident and … yeah.”

“An accident?” Charles repeats, taking wide steps to tower over Kieran. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

“I don’t know.” Kieran mumbles. 

“Amnesia.” Charles glances at Arthur for a short second before focusing on Kieran again, a dawn of realization on his face. “And I’m gonna assume that  **you** are the one feeding him information. So why, does Arthur not know who I am?”

“I...I haven’t gotten to you yet.”

“Next to Hosea and Dutch, I should have been the first few people he recognizes.”

“No!” Kieran cries out, his lips pressed in a tight line. “It’s not like you’re gonna be around him as much! I had to start with those who are…” Kieran swallows the lump in his throat. “Important.”

Uncle had to pull back Charles from pouncing on Kieran who cowered behind Arthur. The scene reminds me of something you’d see in a sitcom. He would have laughed if he wasn’t extremely curious as to who Charles was to him.

“So, who are you?” Arthur interrupts, noticing how Kieran’s grip on his side tightened a bit. 

Charles huffs and stands straight, brushing his suit and flattening the crinkles with his palm before bringing it out in front of him. “I’m Charles Smith the Fourth. I’m your fiance.”

“ **Ex** -fiance.” Keiran corrects from behind Arthur, gutsy despite his predicament. “Don’t want to give Arthur false info now, wouldn’t you?”

“Fine.” Charles grits his teeth. “ **Ex** -fiance.”

“Ah...” Arthur begins, his voice grabbing the two’s attention. “Nice to meet you?” 

Arthur had a feeling Charles was going to be connected to him in some sort of way, but this was something he couldn’t predict. It was an intimate relation, somewhere along this timeline, he and Charles must have dated, kissed, met each other’s parents and did  _ that _ . He was a century-year old man inside the body of an adult but he can’t help being flustered about it.

“We had a good time, huh?” Arthur comments, feeling the air still around him. What exactly were you supposed to say in moments like these? 

Arthur doesn’t miss the way Charles’ face softens, affectionate as his hands trail up his face to cup his cheek. It felt incredibly intimate he would look away if there wasn’t a warm hand on his face.

“We had a great time.” Charles murmurs, a smidge of sorrow in his expression. “Why don’t we go grab lunch?”

“Huh?!” Kieran cries out, Arthur almost forgot he was behind him. “We are actually on our way back, we’ll have lunch there.” His hand gripping Arthur almost vice-like.

“I’m sure Duffy hasn’t answered all of your questions.” Charles says, intentionally ignoring Kieran. “I know you like the back of my hand. From the way you make your coffee, to how you sleep. I can tell you all of that.”

“Ah, well.” Arthur moves away from the warm hand, feeling a sudden wave of awkwardness. “I don’t need to know that.”

“Perhaps, there is something else I can help you with?” 

“There’s actually something.” Arthur replies, lost to the tense atmosphere between the two men who sandwiched him. “Would you happen to know how Hosea and Dutch met?” 

“Of course!” Charles cheerily replies, looking at Kieran as he one-ups him. “I was there when Hosea insisted we know. It was during dinner.”

“Ah the dinner.” Arthur snaps his fingers, pointing his index to Kieran. “That’s what you were saying.”

“Hosea felt that the matter had to be discussed between family.” Charles says calmly. His hands deep in his pockets. “So, what about it? Let’s discuss this over lunch?”

“Sounds good.” Arthur nods, much to Kieran chagrin, letting his frown dissipate as Arthur turned to him. “Go on ahead, Kieran.”

“Ah…” Kieran mumbles, letting his hand fall on it’s tight grip on Arthur. “Sure, of course. I’ll see you back home.”

* * *

Kieran hated feeling like this, this ugly sensation that made his stomach feel weird. It made his jaw tighten up and they weren’t doing anything good for his molars. It made his head hurt a bit and his arms feel more goose-bumpy than usual. 

Kieran hated feeling jealous like this. It had no place in their relationship. Who was he to want to monopolize Arthur’s attention or to be the only source of information that Arthur needs to get back on his own two feet. The more people, the better! 

“It’s Charles, we’re talking about, you idiot.” Kieran scolds himself for the thought and the words he said, because had this been a game, Charles had won several rounds again, and he’s playing another just for the fun of it because he knows he’ll win.

Kieran lands a hit on his head. Why was he seeing Arthur as some type of prize, he’s a friend in need of help, not some trophy to parade with. Though he would want to parade around town with Arthur on his side, to introduce him as his  _ boyfriend.  _

“AH!” Kieran cries out, his panicked cry echoing inside the empty home. “What are you thinking about, you stupid idiot. Stop it.”

However, he doesn’t stop. He can’t help but let his thoughts drift to what could have been had Arthur not lost his memories like that. His hands stop tending to the vegetables mid-chop and he looks up at nothing in particular. 

_ “Give me a few days to think about it, alright?” _

Maybe he should have insisted for an answer right away. Then he wouldn’t be hovering so desperately around Arthur, hoping to reignite feelings that he may have had prior to the accident. It wasn’t that Kieran was going to leave had he not felt the same, but it would be nice to know where he stands in their friendship.

_ “I like you, Arthur.” _

“Damn it.” Kieran grinds his teeth, continuing his task aggressively, the knife hitting the wooden cutting board harder. “Damn it all to hell.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me at tumblr: @luuvbott


End file.
